


Love/Home/Heart

by Volts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Episode: s01e05 Bottled Appetites, Every Triangle is a Love Triangle if you Love Triangles, F/M, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Found Family, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: Jaskier remembers his birth. Or rather he remembers his first breaths in this world.A woman, unrelated to him by blood but his mother all the same, pulls him wailing out of the ground. He feels her joy and the stench of old magic in the air, then…… the knowledge is gone.Contrary to popular belief, thank you Lambert, Geralt was not stupid. As soon as he’d walked into the Tavern in Posada, he’d known something was different about the bard.After an encounter with a Djinn, Yennefer finds herself with a Fae indebted to her. They keep running into each other.xFae!Jaskier, Found Family, and a Developing Relationship.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael
Comments: 148
Kudos: 578





	1. Prologue

Jaskier remembers his birth. Or rather he remembers his first breaths in this world.

A woman, unrelated to him by blood but his mother all the same, pulls him wailing out of the ground. He feels her joy and the stench of old magic in the air, then…

… the knowledge is gone.

X

Julian Alfred Pankratz finds himself drawn to the edge of the wood. The trees are so beautiful – the green leaves whisper to him through the wind in a language he has heard all his life but has forgotten to understand.

Something compels him to remove his shoes and the earth sings as his toes become wet with morning dew.

He is 13 years old and due to start Oxenfurt in a summer or two. The days have been tumbling together, the joy of leaving Lettenhove and the auspicious environment waring with a force that roots his bare feet to the earth in this secluded spot at the edge of the wood. It holds.

Is this chaos?

He knows that young mages, though how he knew he wasn’t sure, have a conduit moment. A moment where their power was realised and they were shipped off to a tall dark, cold, tower and never seen again.

Panic fluttered in his ribcage. He was _not_ going to be shipped off to Ban Ard to _go bald and do magic tricks for a worn-out king_ – he shook his head at the drip of the thought, rattling in his ears like water. That hadn’t been _his_ contempt.

He looked around the clearing, light pooling through the trees on the overgrown grass. There was no one there.

Julian shook himself. He was going to Oxenfurt in a year or two. He would study the Severn Liberal Arts. He would-

Falling

He had tried to take a step backwards, he realised. The part of his brain, the part that had ignored every odd thing that had ever happened to him the last 13 years, rationalised it must have been a tree root.

All other senses disagreed. Instances float to the forefront of his mind. The tantrum he’d had aged 5 when his nursemaid had left and the next day all the milk in the house had soured. The way flowers had bloomed well into the winter the year he’d first discovered the lute and had practiced and practiced until his mother had taken it from him. (He’d practiced in secret since). The time he’d almost drowned in the lake, last summer, only for, as the last breath of air left his lungs, him to bob up. He’d been still for a moment as he floated to the surface then water had spluttered out of his lungs and –

Julian opened his eyes.

His head hurt, a throbbing behind his eyes – shouldn’t the pain be at the back of his head, where he had hit the ground? He squinted at the sky. Clouds meandered across their blue nothingness.

It was going to rain tomorrow. He’d better wear his-

Wait, how did he know that?

His vision swum and, somehow, he knew that something was about to break, burst as if stuck with a pin. Paralysed he stared at the clouds, the leaves of the trees surrounding the clearing framing them.

A sound hummed and skittered towards him; he could not turn his head towards it. A leaf fell…

An oak leaf.

Julian tracked its progress with a sluggish eye. The wind pushed it this way, that way, this way, that way, this way – until…

He could reach out and catch it, the leaf, he could.

-his limbs were frozen in a rictus –

All he had to do was… Move. His. Ha-

The leaf landed, lightly, casually, on his cheek and settled there. Julian’s world exploded.

There was a wailing, the trees shook, the clouds held back their tears. All the animals in the wood froze, unsure as if to run or to go to the prone boy.

Fizzing brightness, an aura of colour dawning in front of changed eyes. The boy curled up into a foetal on the grass – a first, after all he had not been born bloody. Wild flowers carpeted the clearing around him in yellow, shielding his body, spreading out from their creator. The boy reached out and ran his hands through the nearest few – Buttercups, Dandelions, Celandine.

He had been grown here. Right on this spot. Grown for his mother who had no children but was willing to bargain with the rumours in the wood.

Jaskier remembered, remembered growing under this very spot, remembers his mother visiting, whispering, feeding him with stream water, making sure he’d grow up as strong as any child born to his kind or hers.

He remembers the sun growing high, remembered the bright yellow of the yellow of the clearing signifying he was ready. Ready to be born now.

She had lifted him so very carefully out of the earth, sobbing as she had cut the white roots that tethered him to the soil and his heritage. (Jaskier ran a hand over every freckle he had, a small scar reminding him of where he’d come from.)

Once he’d been cut free the forest had whispered again and a figure had stepped out of the nearest tree, out of the unseen. The figure was silent to the newly-disconnected Jaskier and his human mother but now awoken Jaskier remembered the words.

“Dear Child,” the figure had said as they placed a hand on Julian’s forehead, “You will return to us.” And the figure had planted, deep in his mind, the seeds of a place memory. When he next stepped on the place of his beginning, he’d remember.

And now he did.

A part of himself, hollowed and empty, had knitted itself back home.


	2. Blood and Chalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to popular belief, thank you Lambert, Geralt was not stupid. As soon as he’d walked into the Tavern in Posada, he’d known something was different about the bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: Animal Death
> 
> x - Indicates a passage of time or POV change
> 
> Here we cover s01e02 Four Marks and s01e03 Betrayer Moon.

Contrary to popular belief, thank _you_ Lambert, Geralt was not stupid. As soon as he’d walked into the Tavern in Posada, he’d known something was different about the bard.

As they’d walked up the mountain to find the ‘devil’, Geralt’s medallion had hummed with low level chaos, neither benevolent or malevolent, just humming – rather like, as Geralt soon found out, the bard was wont to do. Incessantly. Sometimes in his sleep.

Before they had reached what turned out to be the Elven settlement, Geralt had thought the bard might have elven blood but once the debacle had been resolved, and Filavandrel had given the bard his own lute, there had been no recognition of kin from the King, only a nod of apology on both sides.

Over the last few years of infrequent acquaintance, occasionally parting for individual business – Jaskier paid to entertain at a summer fair or a harvest festival here and there, or the winters where the bard would settle in a court and Geralt would head in the direction of Kaer Morhen (occasionally actually reaching the keep)- Geralt had noticed other things about the bard.

They ranged from the incongruous to the bizarre.

He always had an apple for Roach. No matter how many days it had been since the last market, no matter that there was never an apple tree in the vicinity. Always. He appeared to materialise them from thin air.

He always smelled clean. Sure, his clothes might smell of day old sweat after time on the Path or whatever perfumes Jaskier daubed himself in but the bard himself, no matter how long he’d been without a bath, always smelled clean. The exact scent Geralt had not yet gotten close enough to figure out but it was so…clean.

Also, Geralt wasn’t an expert on humans but he was pretty sure they didn’t bleed as much as Jaskier did. It was _red_ blood at least but there was so much. Once, a wild dog had bitten the bard on the leg and his clothes had been soaked through with it, dripping from the wound, spattering the dirt track below them. Geralt had dropped to his knees, ready to make a tourniquet but the bard had just stood up, blood spraying out at the movement.

“- and this was a new outfit you bastard,” Jaskier had said, kicking out at the dead animal with his injured leg. Shouldn’t he be on the floor in pain?

“Ah well. It’ll come out,” the bard said, resigned, pulling a roll of bedsheet bandages from Geralt’s dropped medical pack, and wrapping a length around the wound. He was completely oblivious to Geralt’s confusion.

“It’ll get infected,” Geralt said, taking the bandage from him to wrap it from a better angle.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Jaskier had assured him, accepting Geralt’s offer of a ride on Roach with the air of humouring a child. The next morning, when Geralt had insisted on checking it over, the wound only had the faintest of scars. Geralt had looked up at the bard dumfounded from where he had been kneeling to check the damage and saw he was nervous. Geralt’s medallion hummed; and Geralt hadn’t yet found the words to ask Jaskier for answers yet but miraculously healing certainly gave him more questions.

“Jaskier-”

“Tell me honestly Geralt, will I live?” Jaskier teased and Geralt had just scowled at him, shoving his foot away with a ‘hmm’.

The trousers were also in a far more pristine condition than a night in a bucket of cold water and fine sewing skills could account for.

The bard looked human for the most part. There was a certain sharpness to his features contrasting his youthful face. Sharp cheekbones, ears, and the flickering of sharp teeth in a mirror – so fleeting Geralt thought he must be seeing things.

There was also something about the bard’s spine, so far only seen under his chemise, the knobs of spinal chord that Geralt wanted to reach out and –

Geralt shook, plenty of humans had sharp spines, it had just been too long since he’d had intimate company. (There was a good brothel in Temeria that had always treated him fairly, he could adjust his plans to head there soon).

Jaskier clattered gracefully, and what a contradiction, over to Geralt’s table, performance over. The way the bard held himself – trying to look smaller than he was- was another point of intrigue for Geralt to muse about in the midnight hours. Jaskier sat down opposite him.

“Well, Geralt. I. Am. Famished. What’s the speciality-” the bard prodded at Geralt’s half eaten stew with the spoon, “hm, looks…rustic. Is that pigeon? Blackbird?”

“Chicken,” Geralt answered.

“Hm, well, when in – where are we? Another ale?”

Geralt found himself agreeing to a second ale even though he’s pretty sure the barkeep spat in his last one – if Jaskier’s paying, he would not object.

Jaskier returned balancing 2 ales, a stew and a loaf of suspect bread – probably cut with chalk.

Geralt growled out a ‘hmm’ of the appreciation and sat in silence for a moment as Jaskier’s mouth was otherwise occupied with the soup. Thinking that the bread, chalky, or otherwise might make the soup more palatable – also if he ate it, Jaskier wouldn’t – Geralt reached out for it.

“I wouldn’t,” Jaskier said.

“Hm?”

“Pretty sure it’s pure chalk,” Jaskier warned, “Heard a rumour that the baker’s trying to make a profit and sell up; he’d be more likely to succeed if he changed his line of work and became a poisoner. Anything-” and Jaskier sounded casual, “anything you could do about him?”

“I hunt monsters.”

“I think giving an entire town illness is pretty monstrous and _don’t_ say you never get involved. You always do!”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt said firmly and Jaskier’s expression softened and he scowled but conceded.

There was a moments silence.

“If you’re that bothered, go to the alderman,” Geralt advised.

Jaskier waved him off, “Let’s forget this talk. You, I have yet to beat at Gwent but since we last saw each other I have acquired some truly spectacular cards for my army. So far it’s only been your longevity and deck in your favour-” Geralt stifled a snort, that was the point of Gwent – whoever had the best cards won – there wasn’t much skill hence why it was generally played by drunks in taverns, “- but tonight I, the great bard Jaskier, will beat _you,_ Geralt of Rivia, fair and square.”

Geralt gave a smile that may have come out more as a snarl but Jaskier still laughed and dug around in his pack for his army. Geralt retrieved his own set. They dealt, redrew, and play commenced.

Needless to say, Geralt won.

Jaskier maintained Geralt cheated all the way back to the inn. Geralt slung his arm over Jaskier’s shoulders as they shoved their way up the stairs to their room. He got a whiff of that clean smell as Jaskier stumbled on the top step. He let go of his friend as they got to their room door and he had to pull the key room from the thong around his neck.

The room was bathed in moonlight and Geralt was frozen as Jaskier was caught in it.

It made him stare. Geralt swallowed his mouth suddenly dry.

Sleep. He needed sleep.

X

Ideally, he’d have dream walked for his late-night mission but unfortunately Jaskier had noted he did need to touch things to ruin the baker’s life.

As it was, Geralt did not seem to have noticed Jaskier’s tiredness the next morning. He had paused, then shaken his head, uninterested, at the innkeeper’s news of the baker’s misfortune.

 _It had been a nice touch,_ Jaskier thought happily. The flooded chalk storage cellar, chalk now a solid paste with grass growing from it, the yeast was now sprouting small (non-poisonous, Jaskier wasn’t that cruel) mushrooms, the fat had soured and curdled – slugs feasting on it and the honey had also mysteriously disappeared (Jaskier had given into a cultural craving and eaten the lot.) He’d had to leave the salt, regretfully alone. (The urge-to-count every grain was a myth but the urge to tidy loose grains of burning salt wasn’t and Jaskier didn’t particularly want to deal with that past midnight.)

As everyone in town seemed to agree that the baker had had it coming, no contract was put outfor the solve of the problem – general consensus seemed to be he’d angered a spirit from the chalk mine – so Geralt and Jaskier had left with a reminder to the townspeople to think of Geralt if anything else weird happened.

X

Jaskier sat by the fire on his bedroll and waited for Geralt to return. He had, by now, learned to tune out the forest as one tunes out the occupants of a tavern. He could sense a doorway near here and hoped Geralt’s medallion couldn’t. After all it hadn’t so much as twitched when Jaskier had approached him in Posada.

That had been 3 years ago and, after hearing a rumour about King Foltest’s daughter’s sudden cure, Jaskier had decided to chance another encounter with the Witcher. They had run into each other a few times now, the last time Jaskier had had a lovely night fucking up a baker’s cellar, and he had not been fearful of Geralt, exactly – Jaskier knew his kind could level cities if he chose to do so – but he hadn’t been entirely, 100%, _completely_ , sure the Witcher wouldn’t kill him if he found out what Jaskier was.

But, hearing that Geralt had saved a Striga, one who - through no fault of her own - had killed, as well, gave Jaskier hope Geralt wouldn’t rush for the silver.

Would silver work? Jaskier mused, humming absently in time to a birdsong three miles away. So far Iron and magical scars were the only ones that had stayed. If Geralt were to decapitate him with his silver sword, would he die? Steele, Jaskier had already tested, having, accidentally stabbed himself whilst training at Oxenfurt. The blood had been copious (much more than a human would bleed), the pain non-existent – a dull bruise – and, once he’d yanked the blade out of his side, the wound had closed up within the next day – presumably Jaskier’s raw soul holding his organs in place.

(There had been a hairy moment several months ago when a wild dog had taken a chunk out of Jaskier’s leg; Geralt had clearly been bursting with questions but hadn’t pressed. Hope had bloomed in Jaskier’s malleable heart. Maybe Geralt wouldn’t reject him.)

It had taken all of Jaskier’s powers of mental persuasion to convince his class mates and instructors that he’d only been nicked through his arm and not his stomach and afterward he’d been so exhausted he’d vowed never to invade another’s mind again. The week spent in bed had not been worth it.

Roach let out a discontented ‘hrumf’. She had never exactly warmed to Jaskier, unless he came bearing bribes, and seemed to understand that Jaskier was…off as humans went.

Well he was off, to his own kind as well – though that could be a matter of choice. Because he had been grown by a human rather than by his kind, there were expectations of him. He was supposed to succeed his human father’s court in Lettenhove and bridge the gap between humanity and Fae kind, ensuring protection for the forests the Fae lived in. He was neither one nor the other.

But Jaskier didn’t want to settle down. He wanted to sing. He wanted adventure. He wanted –

Geralt stepped back into the clearing with two large fish and Jaskier sighed in relief.

“Geralt! Roach has been a less than appreciative audience, I’m glad you’ve returned. It’s time to add to your most lucrative saga. Once we’ve eaten, I demand the story of the Striga.”

“Not much to tell,” Geralt said, searching through their packs for a pan.

“Come on, Geralt, a Striga is…?” Jaskier wasn’t sure what a Striga was, if not but an innocent soul twisted by the cruelty of her forebears – oh that could work… “How many nights did you have to spend in the crypt?” He hoped it was 3, there was a poetry in 3’s. And sevens.

“One,” Oh, Right. Despite their first adventure, and the smash hit wonder that came of it, Jaskier did not like to lie. He could bend the truth, omit the truth, misdirect, romanticise - certainly, exaggerate but actually lying left a coppery taste in his mouth.

But he had recognised his own species plight in those elves.

Whilst the Fae had never been treated as atrociously as the elves had -and Jaskier had felt the blood and the grief in the soil as they had walked through Dol Blathanna – they had throughout the years been pushed from forests as human settlements rose.Trapped in Iron traps by humans and mages who wanted their raw untamed power. And Jaskier himself knew what he was. A Fae child, a changeling, given in exchange for his human family’s treaty. A pact. A truce. A bargaining chip. He had been taken from his Fae mother’s womb and given to another to grow, outside of the safety of the faerie ring. An agreement that the humans wouldn’t attack the Fae people.

So, he had lied. Humans couldn’t kill dead elves, could they?

And the same altruism made him want to change the Witcher’s reputation. (And his own ego, Jaskier may be young but knew he liked attention and praise)

Out loud, across the campfire, he said, “And the King, did he weep with joy?” It was easier to ask questions than expect Geralt to actually tell a full story. A full story required alcohol or, in Jaskier’s case, milk.

“Shut up Jaskier and eat your fish,” Geralt said briskly, _not_ growling but still in a way that showed he was unlikely to display any storytelling abilities until his belly was full.

Jaskier shut up, and ate his fish.

It was nice. Warm but mostly still raw. Jaskier was glad it was fish; humans _could_ eat fish raw. Jaskier suspected Geralt didn’t know the level of ‘cooked’ human needed for food (which could potentially be deadly if Geralt ever got a real human companion - the time Geralt had been paid partially in poultry and they’d eaten mostly raw chicken for a month sprung to mind. Chicken didn’t even last that long without magical intervention; Jaskier had prodded at their poor decaying birds to give them a few extra days free of salmonella before Geralt thought there was something, ha, fishy about a human bard eating bacteria ridden poultry. So, it was nice of Geralt to try this time, considering he thought Jaskier was human.)

Once the fish was finished, Geralt rose to make sure Roach was all brushed and settled in for the night – if she were human Jaskier could imagine Geralt tucking a blanket around her and kissing her forehead. In fact, on a cold night Jaskier was sure he’d actually seen Geralt do that.

“Alright Geralt, tell me how you got that truly tremendous new scar. I’m guessing a Striga has fangs,” Jaskier resisted the urge to run his teeth over his own, retracted, sharp canines and incisors, “was there a spell needed to transform her back?”

Geralt sighed, “She bit me on the neck.”

“I thought that was vampires?” Jaskier almost missed Geralt’s clenched jaw, catching it just in time, “but enough on vampires-“ he tacked on before his lack of knowledge on lesser, middle, and higher vampires rendered Geralt eloquent on entirely the wrong subject, “anything else, any-“

And the night progressed. Night falling, stars twinkling above them.

Jaskier was not anxious to sleep tonight, so close to the ring. He’d have to go dream walking into the unseen which is never pleasant to wake up from especially if Geralt starts shaking you awake because our body has forgotten to breath. (Phew, that had been an interesting night.)

But eventually Geralt’s eyelids started drooping and Jaskier stopped borrowing energy from nearby tree and they both lay down on their bed rolls.

Sleep was uneasy. He supposed he could have just walked over awake, or even transformed into nightingale, or lark perhaps, but Geralt was a light sleeper and would have wondered where Jaskier was going so late at night. (And _perhaps_ why on earth his bard was a bird.)

He settles down to sleep, opening his mind up for a little unseen – wandering, preparing to separate his _self_ from his body. At first it was an ordinary dream. He’s running through Oxenfurt, late for class. He’s lost his timetable. Valdo Marx is an instructor, speaking in riddles – and even in his dream that makes his blood boil – and Jaskier’s head feels foggy. He’s standing in front of the class in just his trousers and chemise, his classmates are whispering and for a moment Jaskier hopes its going to turn into a _really good_ dream as one of his classmates, Zophia, eyeing his underdressed from with appreciation.

Then he’s standing by his unconscious body in the clearing, Geralt asleep a few feet away. Roach’s ears are back but she’s silent, recognising the presence as Jaskier. Resigned he walks through the trees towards the ring.

He’s met by a Fae who wore antlers better than Jaskier could ever hope. Jaskier lets his more inhuman qualities out, it does not truly matter, they are in the unseen now.

His teeth sharpen, his toes lengthen slightlyin his shoes – better for gripping barefoot, his eyes glow a little closer to green than blue, his root spots glimmer in the moonlight, his heartbeat’s louder on its proper right side rather than the left-illusion it beats daily (he hopes Geralt never has cause to actually check) his ears point a little and he can feel his nails point and sharpen.

He feels strangely inadequate next to his cousin’s antlers, but he soothes himself, they would take more energy to glamour.

“May I have your name?” Antlers asks.

“You can call me Jaskier,” Jaskier replies.

“And you may call me Roe,” Roe says.

They size each other up. Jaskier, standing in his blue doublet and trousers (doublet buttoned up, for once, against the night air) knows he doesn’t look especially imposing - he is after all still young, especially by Fae standards, and bears the signs of having lived amongst humans. He’s out of place.

“You are a long way from your forest, child,” Roe asks after looking him up and down. He looks concerned, “and no doubt your human guardians miss you.”

“I’m a bard. I go where the wind takes me. I had truly no intention to trespass, cousin,” Jaskier replies as lightly as he can.

“No apologies needed,” Roe pauses, “You travel with a Witcher…” he trails off uncertainly.

“Who treats me well. The Witcher has great respect for non-humans. Recently he saved a Striga,” Jaskier pauses feeling the energy, “You need not fear for the children.”

He could feel the newly planted Fae, recently lifted from their parent’s bodies and planted inside the ring to be protected and guarded. So fragile, existing neither in the human world or in the unseen, as of yet unable to hide either visage. The doorway above them ready to trap any who stepped over the line. The line between the unseen and the human world so thin. The Faerie ring a doorway between the two worlds for those crossing in physical form.

Jaskier remembers tales of humans falling asleep in Faerie woods never to wake; how many of them had been unable to return to their bodies as Fae could.

The children sprout in both worlds under the ring. They have their connection to the physical world there, on the human side, and their anchor to their power and the Fae in the unseen. Jaskier had met Fae grown in the unseen, formless sprites unable to take solid form in the human world, stuck in pocket worlds, haunting woods. And then there was Jaskier himself, grown in the human world entirely and raised with a part of him missing, no explanation of his power. Constantly feeling like he didn’t quite belong.

The doorway. The balance.

Even though Jaskier had not been planted in a ring, and instead had been given for another, his mother, to guard (and as a result straddled an invisible line, brought up by humans but not one himself), he knew how important the sprouts were. They were children. He could only imagine the connection one sprout had with another. He could vaguely remember in the days before his birth how the trees had sung, how the earth had rumbled before his mother had cut his roots and held him close.

Roe smiled as any proud parent might as he guarded the ring.

“Your assurances relieve me. I heap blessings upon your house for the coming years,” and Jaskier smiled and bowed, baring the nape of his neck in deference and trust.

“Will you visit properly,” Roe asks, gesturing downward and around, where entrances to burrows and tree houses were concealed from any of the creature that might cross through and live. Jaskier shook his head. As an outsider, that would mean an introduction to the court and if Jaskier meant to leave tomorrow with Geralt there would be no point.

“Do you wish to sit with us at least?” Roe asked, “To tell them about your Witcher, who protects you?”

Jaskier nodded and sat at the edge of the ring with Roe – back to back, and removed his incorporeal shoes and _felt…_

The children awoke happily at the feel of another playmate and Jaskier smiled as streams of wordless consciousness prodded at him.

“Sh sh,” he smiled again as he and Rose quietened them in tandem as Roe introduced him.

“I’ll play a song for you, young ones, one of a Witcher who protects those who are kind and innocent,” and he sang. It didn’t have words as such, the children were too young for that, but it spoke of heroics and heartbreak of love of –

-of Geralt of Rivia.

He put as much of the unfinished Striga melody in as possible, emphasizing how Geralt had saved her when so many others had given up. He could hear Roe in the background settling restless ones, shushing others, but for the most part Jaskier had a rapt audience.

When dawn rose, the children settled into a sleep. Wordlessly Jaskier and Roe stood, pressed their foreheads together in parting and bowed.

“Are you sure you will not stay,” Roe asked and Jaskier shook his head, letting his feet lead him away from the ring. It was not his place to stay. Besides, what would Geralt do without him? (What would he do without Geralt?)

Geralt was just rising and, sensing that he was about to panic at Jaskier’s lack of heartbeat, Jaskier quickly lay back down atop his physical form and awoke. He heard Geralt’s sigh of relief as he opened his eyes. The Witcher’s small smile settled into a frown when Jaskier smiled up at him.

The day started.

Jaskier eventually prised the rest of the Striga story from Geralt. If he ever met Triss Merigold he’ll shower her in adoration and blessings for saving Geralt’s life. He wasn’t sure how he’d work in Geralt biting the princess in the neck into the song but he’d figure something out.

As they left the wood, Jaskier glanced through the trees at the ring and smiled.

The trees whispered to him, offering fond farewells. Jaskier started humming. Happy to walk away from the ring, at Geralt’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos appreciated. Thank you for getting this far. Updates should happen every few days; it's all written just needs tweaking in places.


	3. Interlude and Introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being friends – because that’s what they were – with Geralt was great for a number of reasons. 
> 
> x
> 
> Jaskier goes back to Lettenhove and contemplates the notion of home.

Being friends – because that’s what they were – with Geralt was great for a number of reasons.

Geralt had a dark humour that satisfied Jaskier’s slightly warped life view and was fiercely protective and caring. The man did have horrible self -esteem but what was a best friend for if not to try to bring it up. Also, people tended to notice Jaskier’s inhuman qualities less when Geralt was around. Geralt probably thought he was just a bit odd where humans were concerned.

Gift giving was a difficult one. It felt duplicitous for him to give gifts people who wouldn’t understand what they meant the privacy issues, the power they could potentially hold if Jaskier was to lose control. So, he made his gifts ephemeral, songs or a poem or food.

(Currently he’s working on a song, absolutely not about Geralt but who was he kidding?)

And that’s not touching in the way they words ‘thank you’ make him so culturally angry he has to take a deep breath. Hopefully Geralt hadn’t noticed that.

Logically he knows human’s say ‘thank you’ as appreciation - ‘I’m glad you did this, it made me feel good’ – but to Jaskier, especially now he’s _consciously_ involved in his Fae heritage it feels like a dismissal of the act. A ‘I see what you’ve done and these two words mean I now owe you and that’s what I think of you’ and Jaskier is left with a cultural outrage and embarrassment at the attention and anger at the dismissal. To have one’s good deeds reduced to a transaction is horribly disheartening.

Also, there is the small matter of the debt. It’s never a good idea to say the two words that could mean you owe the Fae something. So far Jaskier had never followed through when thanked, he’s always, calmly as possible, said: ‘ _Don’t mention it’_ , magically batting away the debt the human owes.

It’s very tiresome. And a large part of why Jaskier feigns cowardice.

Geralt at least hardly ever tries to thank Jaskier. He’s probably annoyed Jaskier never thanks him, not in those words, but there we go.

(This new song hopefully may sooth any ire Geralt has.)

One disadvantage of being Geralt’s friend was Geralt’s winter retreats to Kaer Morhen, where only Witchers go. Every other winter Jaskier would go home to Lettenhove. It was always a frosty reception, his father, the Count of Lettenhove, had recoiled from his son the day he’d found out what Jaskier actually was, what his wife had done to secure their child.

Jaskier had gone to his parents the first morning he’d arrived home, he’d accepted his mother’s hugs and kisses, had a stilted conversation with his father about the autumnal harvest. They’d eaten lunch. His revelation of his inhumanity had put a rift between the three of them. At first Jaskier had been resentful they’d taken him from his home, his forest – ‘ _Don’t go in the forest Julian, you might be eaten by a bear,’_ his mother used to say. But his mother loved him and had not stopped him going to the wood after he’d found out. And she was quite glad he was more indestructible than human children. Even so his desire to come back each winter season was waning as his attachment to Lettenhove waned.

Now Jaskier is walking barefoot in the snow his sharp nails cutting through the powdery substance. He comes to the ring; he feels the hibernating Sprouts under the doorway into the unseen. He steps into the inbetween, pulling his body with him into the ring, feeling the sprouts stir – he sends reassurance to them – and steps through.

He emerges in the unseen wood, not unlike the one he left, untouched by man. He is hit by an intoxicating wave of magic – each time it hits him it temporarily turns his brain inside out. It is stronger now, in winter, the trees and leaves are dying, feeding chaos back into the fabric of the world. It is not home exactly; he is a bard - his home is on the road - but it is safe. He can smile toothily without double checking himself.

He makes his way into the town proper, underground, safe and warm.

Soon he has a crowd of children surrounding him asking about his adventures. He lets them draw him into a chamber with roots holding up the ceiling and sits himself down, lute on his lap.

He plays.

He lets the sound of his people wash over him, not many of them slip into the human world, only going out to place their sprouts or steward their wood. Some travel disguised to other settlements, hiding as he does or as animals, but here all the glamour is off.

He lets all his chaos into his songs, lets it flow through Filavandrel’s lute, and sings.

Later, he eats a hind of deer, a little on the bloody side just like he likes it, and watches as more winter arrivals claim the attention of the children – Jaskier expects he’ll have a few begging for music lessons in the coming days.

He’s playing Gwent with a friend when she asks, “Why do you follow that Witcher around?”

“All the adventure, the heartbreak. I’m having the time of my life, why wouldn’t I – oh you hell hound!” Raisa had played Skellige Storm, reducing his range and siege units to one. She just laughed, her fangs flashing in the low light, her green eyes merry with victory.

“Is he handsome?” And that was playing below the belt – he’d just been about to make a really good move and now he’d forgotten which card.

He flushed a rose pink in response, root spots shimmering.

“ _Really?_ I’ve always heard Witcher’s were-” she shrugged, her wings, as beautiful as a barn owl, rustling.

“Whatever you have heard is a lie. Geralt at least is one of the kindest men I know. He can be violent but most of all he’s kind, the amount of times he’s refused coin for a contract because the village is too poor – makes my job harder I tell you. I’m trying to get them to pay him more dammit. He has no idea how _good_ he is.”

“Oh Earth, you’re in love with him,” Raisa exclaimed and, in her surprise accidentally allowed Jaskier a peek at the rest of her cards. He wasn’t going to win.

“Of course, I’m in love with him, I’ve known him 8 years now and I’m gone.”

She looked at him sadly, “You don’t make it easy on yourself so you? You could have anyone here. Settle, have a few Sprouts…”

Jaskier shook his head.

“My life is with him.” Jaskier had settled into his unrequited but hopeful love very contentedly. Occasionally he even thought that Geralt, emotionally unavailable as he was, might return his feelings.

“And when he finds out?” Gwent was now completely abandoned.

“I’ll love him still, he is Light, Raisa, and I am but a moth, he spread his arms wide.

“Moths get burned,” she said flatly, her root spots dulling in concern.

x

Later that night, above ground and sitting in a tree perched on the branch in the shape of a Myna bird, he looks out to the stars. There is dancing below, Raisa’s arms are linked with a beauty who possesses a tail to rival any lion, and Jaskier whistles in the night as a bird might to human ears, hoping that one day he can show Geralt all of this.

He realises the tune he’s whistling is his new song for Geralt;

_“Some call it faith, some call it love.  
  
_

_Some call it guidance from above.  
  
_

_You are the reason we found ours,_  
  


_So thank you stars._

_To some it's the strength to be apart_

_To some it's a feeling in the heart_

_And when you're out there on your own, it's the way back home_

_There are no winds that can blow it away on the air_

_When they try to blow it away is when you know it will always be there._

_So thank you stars.”_

One day. One day he’ll tell Geralt how he felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier writes for Geralt is a rearranged version of ‘Thank You Stars’ by Kate Melua.
> 
> This is a short one. Next Chapter s01ep04, Of Banquet's, Bastards and Burials!
> 
> (Also the 'Every Triangle is a Love Triangle if you love Triangles' tag is a quote by comedian James Acaster. He has a 4 part comedy show on Netflix (UK) called Repertoire. It's very funny.)


	4. Party and After Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And now, Witcher, it’s time to have fun,” Jaskier says as Geralt spits his pint on the floor and glares at the bartender, “Fun? You’re probably asking yourself? I’ve made you famous Geralt and, as a result, I’ve been asked to play at court – from which problems may arise. All I need is your help.”  
> “Fuck off, bard,” and Geralt is in a terrible mood today, but so would Jaskier if he had just been eaten by a Selkimore.  
> “For one measly night of service, you will gain a cornucopia of earthly delights. The greatest masters of the culinary arts crafting morsels worthy of the gods. Maidens who would make the sun itself blush with a single comely smile-” and he’s lost him. Fuck where’s he gone? There he is.  
> “Food, women and wine, Geralt.”
> 
> x
> 
> AKA s01e04 Of Banquets, Bastard's and Burials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where canon starts to wobble before being completely derailed in the very near future.  
> Any recognisable dialogue is from s01e04 of Banquets, Bastards and Burials. This is pretty much canon commentary. I spent a lot of time rewatching the episode to get it 'just' right.  
> Also I posted this chapter and the last one at the same time so don't miss Chapter 3.

Coming across Roach in a Selkimore infested town not an hour away from Cintra was a blessing. Inside the inn he finds a blood-soaked councilman, from the next town over, just bursting to tell his story and Jaskier is more than happy to chronicle it. Selkimores are tricky bastards but Geralt has a way with them – straight through their stomachs.

And, sure enough, Geralt shows up looking so awful Jaskier has to laugh.

“Always a good one,” he says approaching Geralt at the bar as the man takes an ill-advised pull on a pint.

“And now, Witcher, it’s time to have fun,” as Geralt spits his pint on the floor and glares at the bartender, “Fun? You’re probably asking yourself? I’ve made you famous Geralt and, as a result, I’ve been asked to play at court – from which problems may arise. All I need is your help.”

“Fuck off, bard,” and Geralt is in a terrible mood today, but so would Jaskier if he had just been eaten by a Selkimore.

“For one measly night of service, you will gain a cornucopia of earthly delights. The greatest masters of the culinary arts crafting morsels worthy of the gods. Maidens who would make the sun itself blush with a single comely smile-” and he’s lost him. Fuck where’s he gone? There he is.

“Food, women and wine, Geralt.”

X

Going to Cintra is a risk even Jaskier is feeling might even be too big for his boots. He has not forgotten Calanthe’s part in Elven genocide. It _is true_ there may be some angry spouses or parents or siblings there to assault him but, honestly, he could deal with that by himself if it weren’t for being in Queen Calanthe’s court. One whiff of inhumanity and it’ll be off with his head. Not to mention – if the rumours about Eist Tuirseach are true – the potential presence of a _druid_.

So Jaskier bathes Geralt, comfortable in knowing he’ll get no thanks, rubs Geralt’s favourite scent over his tense – of the all places to wear your stress Geralt – backside and sends Geralt’s clothes to be washed.

“Stop your boorish grunts of protest. It’s one night of bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world,” Jaskier says tipping the bucket of water over Geralt’s head.

Geralt protests, because of course he does, at the word ‘friend’ and its water off a duck’s, Jaskier’s, back at this point. 9 years of this.

9-ish years of being completely head over heels with this infuriating, gorgeous, man.

“Oh really, oh you usually let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” and it was so, so, lovely, “Yeah well, exactly that’s what I thought.”

Geralt glares at him so he turns to one side and starts getting Geralt’s wardrobe prepared.

But first …the smell. Whilst Geralt’s natural smell was … decent (a bit too much Roach for Jaskier’s liking) bath salts were the way to go.

“Every Lord and two-penny King will be at this betrothal feast. The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier’s triumphant performance,” hopefully she wouldn’t singing too loudly – the people who Calanthe liked are not the people he wanted to be associated with. Unfortunately, whilst Toss-a-Coin had done wonders for the Elves of Dol Blathanna in terms of escaping, it also had become a song sung by elf-haters across the continent. There were other verses, other contracts, to that song – Drowners, Nekkers, Wraiths, even a Manticore once – yet everyone remembers the bigotry.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?”

In Calanthe’s court? All of them. If they knew what he truly was.

“Hard to say, one stops keeping count. Wives, concubines, mothers, brothers,” just slip in the fact he likes men to this incredibly attractive naked man. Only Geralt looks disapproving, of course he does. Though probably not about the _man_ part, Jaskier knew Geralt didn’t always go to female prostiutes.

“Yeah, that face. No lord in his right mind’ll come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that,” and then he stops his friend showing up to a party drunk, like friends do. Jaskier had once drank an entire pint of milk before a Duke’s party and had ended up puking in a rose garden, not a classy night.

“I will not suffer tonight sober because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry,” Geralt says and that was delightful imagery. To say Witchers had no poetry was a lie, coarse, maybe, but –

“I’m not killing anyone-” oh and here Geralt goes assuming that death is the only option. Scare someone, prank them, compose an insulting limerick – which he knew Geralt could do (Lambert did sound like a prick).

“Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crochety and cantankerous. Actually I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah, when they slow and get killed,” well that’s a happy thought. Luckily Jaskier is around to make sure that won’t happen.

“You must want something for yourself, once all this monster hunting is over with.”

“I want nothing,” and Jaskier knows that isn’t true. Geralt likes long warm baths. He likes the smell of chamomile. He likes Roach. He just denies himself comfort and companionship due to some fucked up Witcher-shit.

“Well,” how does he let Geralt know Geralt could rely on Jaskier for as long as he lives, “Who knows?” Jaskier isn’t going anywhere, he is going to give Geralt what he deserves, “Maybe someone, out there will want you.” _Me, it’s me_ , he thinks.

“I need no one,” Sure, some people could survive a lonely bitter empty life alone but Geralt is not one of those people. He yearns. He wants. “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet. Here we are,” Jaskier breathes, makes sure to hold Geralt’s gaze. Is this the moment?

“Hm,” then, “where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?” And Jaskier had forgotten to tell him that.

When he’d thought to ask Geralt to ball he’d not planned for all of Geralt’s clothes to be covered in shit or viscera.

Luckily, they were almost the same size.

Almost.

Those shoulder’s might be a bit much. Far too much. Jaskier might faint one day.

“Ah. Well. They were covered in Selkimore guts so I sent them to be washed. Anyway, you’re not going tonight as a Witcher.”

Whilst Geralt was grumping in the bath water, Jaskier subtly ran his hands over his blue doublet with the small gold patterned flowers, extending the shoulder just enough so they wouldn’t burst but not so much Geralt would be suspicious. If Geralt didn’t mind wearing it tight, it’d button up.

“Here, you can wear this,” _It wasn’t a gift, it wasn’t a gift,_ “Be careful with it. I want it back in one piece. That means no more Selkimore liver.” _Nailed it._

“Same goes for my shirt,” that should fit too, with a bit of tweaking.

Trousers however…

In the end Jaskier borrows a pair off the innkeeper, adjusts them before he gets back to the room and hopes to Oberon that the chaos has dusted off by the time they arrive at the palace.

Actually, being in a room with Geralt wearing his clothes is torture. _Not a gift, Not a gift, Not a gift_ , his mind chanted as Geralt spoke to the druid who had dismissed Jaskier as an idiot pretty quickly. He can feel his possessions across the room, fluttering as if in a breeze. It was a temporary attachment - mostly agreed by glare but, as Jaskier could now understand Geralt’s glares and ‘hmms’ as if he spoke verbally, the contract had been made.

_Not a Gift. A loan._

A base part of him shivered – fuelled by his own love for Geralt.

He sighed and carried on setting up. The rest of the band seem like decent people, professional and capable at least. Maybe up for a laugh and a pint later.

Then the next thing he knows he’s being set upon by a cuckholded husband – his wife was a dear truly, pity she was stuck with such a miserable bastard – and is being saved by Geralt.

“Forgive me, my lord. This happens all the time. It’s true he has the face of a cad and a coward-” this is revenge isn’t it for dragging Geralt to this party, “- but truth be known, he was kicked in the balls by an ox as a child.”

No THAT was revenge. And Geralt is loving this, his eyes are shining and everything, and Jaskier could drown in them but he’s also bloody annoyed…

“First of all, you hog all the fanfare, then you go and ruin my courtly reputation.” And it’s a reputation well earned, Geralt. Geralt could find out any time he wanted, if only he stopped over-thinking everything.

“I saved your life. You’re on your own from here on. Try and not get any daggers on your back before dawn.” As if something as piffling as a dagger could hurt him, but he’s saved from making a sufficiently human reply by the arrival of the Queen.

Unfortunately, she looks stunning. Blood and armour playing exactly into Jaskier’s type of sexy and terrifying – if the rumours are true, he and Eist Tuirseach have a lot in common – and, aside from genocide and general unpleasantness, her main flaw is that she doesn’t especially like his music – racist songs notwithstanding.

So, he gets shouted at by the Queen for his choice of first song. Then two lords, one from Skellige, get into a fight about a manticore and the Queen drags Geralt into it.

“- the song?” Jaskier reminds him, reminds him they are in a court and he doesn’t particularly want to die tonight. Luckily Geralt’s frankness seems to endear him with the Queen and he gets a place at the high table – which can’t be a good sign.

Just keep playing, Jaskier, two hands, one lute, and he’ll be fine.

Then he’s being interrupted by the procession of pricks – sorry Princes. Poor Princess Pavetta. So, he moves on to the bawdiest song he would dare play for murderous royals this early in the evening. No one’s drunk enough for this.

Then the cursed knight invades the room and Jaskier can sense the wrongness even before the helmet is removed. A bastardry between his own shifting magic and something entirely… different. Jaskier can feel **something** rippling in the spheres around them. A moment approaching fast.

“Slay this beast!” Calanthe yells and all famine breaks loose.

The law of surprise, oh fuck, that’s as binding as a Fae contract. Destiny does so like it’s tricks.

Various nobles, not Jaskier, begin brawling. Trusting Mousesack and Geralt to be too preoccupied with the fighting nobles to bother with little him, he raises his lute as a staff and uses a small amount of his energy to create shield. He extends the shield to protect the other non-violent party goers including a Lady in a grey dress. He put his arm around her shoulder as an anchor and, he was honest enough to admit, just because she was beautiful.

Then Geralt gets involved defending the cursed knight and the fighting broke out with a renewed fervour, Eist Tuirseach joining Geralt’s side. Three against several dozen.

Without expending two much energy he incapacitated a fighter that got a bit too close to Geralt, nothing too difficult - just pausing and restarting a few hearts. Then Calanthe joins the fight and a ‘Oh Shit’ frisson of terror runs through him. Luckily, she’s not headed for Geralt, and Jaskier really wouldn’t want to be in Eist’s shoes right now.

Then-

“Stop!” and everyone does.

Jaskier exchanges a look with the lady under his arm, a _‘what on earth just happened?’_ look. She’d been watching him play earlier, she was a little older than him, human, and wearing a silver dress that contrasted beautifully with her dark hair. Now was not really the time but he let her pull him a little closer.

The Princess ran to her suitor and embraced him. This would make a good ballad. The cursed man fighting off hundreds of suitors for the one he loved, the maiden locked away from a prying eye and guarded by the most fearsome of – well maybe there was a little artistic license, and he wouldn’t play it in Cintra.

As the Knight kneels, Jaskier disentangles himself from the lady – who’s grabbing a much-needed drink – to get a closer look at the knight. Yeah that’s one mother of a curse.

“An honest gamble,” the Knight said, and Jaskier shrugs and lets the very creepy romance play out before him. Maybe this wasn’t ballad material, not unless he changed somethings around: made the pair closer in age for example. Wasn’t Pavetta too young to be marrying?

“Until destiny intervened and our hearts collided,” that’s a good line, he might use it.

“Destiny helps people believe there is an order to this horseshit. There isn’t,” Well said that Witcher. Personally, Jaskier believed destiny sort of poked you in the right direction and life was what you made of it. Hence why he’d started following Geralt around in the first place.

Then Queen Calanthe moved towards the cursed man and –

There was a scream.

Jaskier was blasted back into the Lady from before, he only just managed to cushion their fall and pulled her to him. Turning toward the Princess, he tried to see what he could do.

The raw power Pavetta was emitting made him feel drunk. His own brittle wards wouldn’t hold long. Mousesack and Geralt were doing something, Geralt throwing Aard after Aard. Pavetta and Duny were in the air rotating in a maelstrom of magic. Geralt was battling as close as he could and was buffeted back.

Jaskier saw Geralt, through his wards, take out one of his potions and knock it back. The Witcher and Mousesack readied another attack, Geralt once again battling closer.

A well timed Aard landed home and the pair came crashing down.

Disorientated, he pulled the woman to her feet. His ears were ringing. He could throw up.

He was holding this woman’s hand, Geralt was still in his clothes. Hand in hand with the woman he joined the circle around Pavetta, Duny and Calanthe, quickly double checking his eyes in a fallen shield to make sure they were sufficiently human.

He pulled the woman, shaking, into a hug and ran his hand up and down her bicep to soothe her. Shushing any words she might want to say – she rested her head on his shoulder.

“There will be two vows here tonight, I assume that’s agreeable,” Calanthe announced and obviously no one dared disagree with the Queen as she stood side by side with Eist and Pavetta.

“Delightful.”

Pavetta and Duny get married, Calanthe wrapping the handfast herself – and Jaskier has always been a bit of sap at weddings (never his own thank Earth, he will say that of himself - he’s never left anyone at the alter). The curse breaks and he quickly shields the Lady as it happens in case it’s something … well he doesn’t know why he shields her really, maybe he just likes her in his arms, keeping her safe. He doesn’t yet know her name.

“I think this has the makings of my greatest ballad yet,” he says, sniffing, accepting the Lady’s offer of a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. He cleans the rest of his face too, double checking his ear and tooth situation.

“If you’re alive in the morning, don’t grope for trout in any particular rivers until dawn,” Geralt of Rivia everyone, offering unneeded advice. If this lady has an escort, he is a poor one. And why dawn, why is dawn important? And Geralt turns to leave. Why dawn, Geralt?

This evening was salvageable. Two happy couples, he could feel the love pouring from Eist and Calanthe – and that was just his bardic sense of romance. And he had the most stunning woman in the room on his arm.

Unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t yet enjoy himself yet. Duny was entreating himself to Geralt, asking to pay the life debt. Jaskier’s Fae senses could sense some great destiny swirling around Pavetta and her uncursed Prince. The night wasn’t over yet, the foundations of the castle rumbled at him – remembering something that hadn’t yet come to pass. He could feel it, the knifes edge paralysing him. He clutched the ladies’ hand tighter – nails all redacted? Thank fuck – he couldn’t breathe, he was about to fall…

“- the law of surprise. Give me that which you already have but do not know.” Geralt, sweet, charming, naïve Geralt. Terror rose in Jaskier’s throat.

“Destiny can go-”

Pavetta threw up.

Everything slotted into place. The room was charged, tension and the after effects of magic still in the air.

“Fuck.”

Calanthe went ballistic, understandably.

Geralt stormed out, followed by the druid. Jaskier needed to pack up and do damage control.

He turned to the woman, “I’m afraid I must cut this short, there goes my Witcher. It has been an honour, my lady,” he bowed and kissed her hand.

“Are you ever in Vizima? You should come play for us, where may I write to you at?”

Jaskier puffed up at the invitation, he was not one to deny a beautiful lady, “Write to me care of Oxenfurt University, they usually know where to find me. Addressed to Jaskier should suffice, Lady-?”

“Marina, Countess de Stael.” He kissed her hand again and he recognises her, now they aren’t in the middle of a fight. She used to come to stay with his family when he was an adolescent. He wrote his first poems about her; he’d fallen for her.

“I think we’ve met before, in Lettenhove. I sincerely hope we meet again,” she smiled and his breath caught.

“Apologies for my regretful departure,” and, after kissing Marina’s hand once more, he left before Queen Calanthe could think about beheading the bard who had brought a Witcher into her court.

x ****

Geralt. Geralt didn’t know what to think. His, Jaskier’s, clothes were tight. They didn’t itch exactly but his medallion hummed as it brushed against them. He wanted them off. He wanted to forget this accursed night. He wanted to see Roach. He wanted to get blind drunk on the cheapest piss the inn had to offer. He wanted to ride out tomorrow and stick his sword in something. He wanted to forget he’d ever heard of the country of Cintra and that he’d never met that damn stupid bard.

He seethed along the road back to the inn. By the time he’d found Roach he could admit he’d been unfair. Jaskier couldn’t have known things would turn out like this, he was still furious with him but that might have more to do with the pretty woman Jaskier had had hanging on his arm whilst all chaos had exploded around Pavetta.

How was he supposed to know the Princess was pregnant? She was far too young!

Geralt went into the stable, pulled off Jaskier’s doublet, laid it over the stall door and rested his head against Roach’s neck.

“I’ve really fucked up this time, Roach,” she eyeballed him, “Really. Really.”

He wanted to cry. Roach wouldn’t think less of him if he cried. So, he did. He sobbed silently into Roach’s neck, allowing the rise and fall of her breathing to soothe him. As long as he focussed, first on tomorrow then the next day. The steps. On The Path. One step in front of each other. He’d be okay, him and his girl Roach.

He heard Jaskier come back, heard him pause in the yard before he went into the inn. Geralt breathed a sigh of relief. He’d have to go in eventually, his armour and alchemy equipment were in there, but now he just had to breath.

He sank to his knees and began to meditate. Meditation drifted into sleep.

X

He was awoken by Jaskier just as dawn rose.

“Morning Geralt, thought I’d best wake you before the stable boy got the fright of his life. Morning, my girl,” he turned to Roach, who hrumfed and took a step back, “One day you’ll love me. Come on Geralt, there’s a basin of water with your name on it. And a comb, hold still-” Jaskier reached around and pulled a length of straw from Geralt’s hair. He twirled it in long lute-calloused hands.

They walked up the stairs and Jaskier gently prodded Geralt towards the basin. He laid out Geralt’s old, black, comfy, clothes on the bed.

“What a night, eh, Geralt? A night of love and magic. I’m thinking of writing a song about Queen Calanthe and Eist, might endear me to them, you never know. And the raw power Pavetta had, a glass exploded right by my head. Geralt could you-” Geralt let the comforting lilt of Jaskier’s voice wash over him.

He dressed mechanically in his own clothes, watched as Jaskier carefully folded the loaned doublet and shirt, and set about strapping on his armour.

He wanted to thank Jaskier for understanding that right now he just needed to _be,_ however-

“Geralt, the child surprise.”

-Jaskier _just_ had to go and ruin it.

Geralt turned away, jaw clenched, _why must-_

“It’s not even born yet,” Jaskier hurried to continue, “Just don’t sink into your head and forget – forget you’re not alone. I’m here if you need to talk, and if not, well, you could talk to that mage you met in Temeria, Triss was it? Or even one of your fellow Witchers, or that druid Mousesack. Just don’t isolate yourself-”

Geralt turned away. Jaskier didn’t understand. He couldn’t expose a child to a life of pain and rejection, of women crossing the road when they met, of rocks thrown at them, he couldn’t –

His chest constricted, his breath felt tight and, shuddering, he sat on the edge of the bed. There was a high-pitched keening noise. He realised it came from him.

Jaskier sat next to him, one hand his shoulder, “In. Out. Breathe with me Geralt, focus on my breathing.”

Geralt focussed, could hear Jaskier’s lungs expanding and deflating. Could hear his heartbeat, babum-babum-babum – there was something off about it – an irregularity? He’d heard hearts with holes in them, weak and dying. Fear seized him but no, Jaskier’s heart was strong. It was just… in the wrong…place?

Gods he was so tired. Whilst he loved Roach, sleeping on his knees with her shoulder as a pillow was not conduit to a good night’s rest.

Little did he know the tiredness would become a pattern over the next 7 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter? Yennefer. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated. Usually I don't care if people comment, I write mostly for fun, but this has been 33k and 4 months in the making ... so, please?
> 
> (See you on Thursday!)


	5. Lullaby's and Loopholes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door is flung open by an angry mage.  
> “Whoever you are, I hope you know I had plans for tonight!” then she takes in the sight of them and becomes curious, “Well aren’t you the odd couple.”  
> “Can you help or not?” Jaskier said, through gritted teeth, Geralt slumped over his shoulder. Getting him off Roach had been a pain. 
> 
> x
> 
> We meet Yennefer (!!!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the plot goes straight into canon-divergent territory.  
> Also, this is a *long* chapter, compared to the previous ones at least.  
> Recognisable Dialogue is from s01e05 Bottled Appetites.

Jaskier, for the first time in his life had a steady lover. Marina was…

_-His love. His light. His muse. His laugh on a dull day, the sun on a winter morn. A hand to hold and a heart to love in this cold, sharp, world. -_

… and then she wasn’t. It wasn’t the first time they’d split up but the last time he’d barely left the grounds before a messenger ha called him back for a reconciliation. His heartbreak had barely begun.

Jaskier found himself in a bar and decided to get a bit pissed. They hadn’t been exclusive, a good choice considering Jaskier was in love with Geralt.

He’d been spending his winters in her court, playing for her daily and warming her bed nightly. He’d made her laugh; she’d made him smile. They’d dance around her empty ballroom for hours, dancing to songs half-composed on the spot. Sometimes just revolving on the spot, kissing slowly.

When apart he’d written poetry composing lines about her wit and beauty as he waited for Geralt to return from a hunt and then, when Geralt returned, he’d write a song about his strength and heroics. Then he’d write poetry about Geralt’s beauty and kindness whilst he waited for the next contract, he didn’t share those with the public, and wrote letters to Marina with his latest news.

The barkeep must have recognised Jaskier’s expression because he left both bottles with the mug. He mixed milk with vodka with the hand of a man with a single-minded focus.

Valdo fucking Marx. He writes one, ONE BALLAD – ONE – and not even about Marina herself. A ballad about a duel Marina’s son Filip had won.

It had been a good move. Ingratiated his way into her court. Secured a permanent position rather than just the winters Jaskier spent and suddenly the last time Jaskier had visited his relationship with Marina was on the rocks.

Wherever he was Valdo Marx followed, playing his mandolin with far too many flourishes.

And suddenly there had been more arguments, more sleeping on the floor outside her room, one too many petty snubs of his music in favour of a substandard troubadour and… and he’d stormed out. This last time had been his final bid to win her back, reconcile, to show he didn’t care. Valdo Marx may have a place in her court but Jaskier had her heart. (And everyone knew Valdo Mark was just waiting for an opening in Cidaris).

Only she had ended it. She wanted something more, something steadier.

The bard playing in this tavern, a lyre player, was grating on Jaskier’s nerves.

“Do you have rooms?” he slurred. The barkeep nodded and told him to pay up front. Jaskier blew most of his money on three nights.

The substandard bard wailed through a rendition of The Fishmonger’s Daughter that, on any other day, would have had Jaskier strand up to defend his honour. As it was, he pulled out his hip flask, usually full of honey and lemon tea, and poured in the rest of his milk-vodka cocktail. Originally the plan had been to pass out on the bed in the inn but he could feel himself collapse inwards. Probably not a good idea to be around humanity right now.

He dumped his belongings, tucking his lute into his chaos, and ambled out of town. He could vaguely feel an energy at the other end of town.

Something powerful.

He purposely walks away from it, out of town, towards to lake. It was mid-morning and he’d had an entirely liquid breakfast.

As he walked, he allowed his inhibitions to fall away. He let his eyes brighten, he felt the trees whispering, the lake rippling. A disturbance. The trees were concerned about something. There wasn’t a Fae settlement here, they were asking him for help.

There was something angry, two somethings. The trees lead him along the bank. He could feel it now, through his thin shoes – Geralt may scoff but any thicker and he’d feel trapped.

The angry creature knocked against the bottom of the lake, buffered the second creature, searching…

A Djinn. Oh shit.

Jaskier could do some damage against an angry Djinn but they were just as tricksy as Fae. The Djinn was going to see him as a threat immediately. The Djinn was going to twist any wish made as far as possible to attack Jaskier. The best he could hope would be to get the wishes himself.

The second figure came into awareness. Bright and shining and…tired. Oh dear earth what had Geralt been bottling up now.

Geralt.

Jaskier absently, drunkenly, hummed a ditty – something about Nilfgaard – and approached Geralt.

And found him hunting the Djinn.

“Hello Geralt, what’s it been, months, years? What is time anyway? Are you following me you scamp? I’m flattered but you should really think about getting a hobby these days.” And Jaskier hopes Geralt isn’t doing what Jaskier thinks he’s doing because that would be monumentally moronic, even for Geralt.

“How are you doing I hear you ask?” and Jaskier momentarily gets side-tracked by Marina because who else can he talk about this stuff with?

But the Djinn is getting closer, best distract Geralt – “- die a broken-hearted man. Or a hungry one. Unless somebody fancies sharing a fish with an old friend?” And Jaskier can feel the Djinn. It’s angry and his attempts to distract Geralt aren’t working. Isn’t Roach also a species of fish?

“I’m not fishing. I can’t sleep,” he’s hunting a Djinn because he couldn’t sleep.

“What’s going on Geralt, talk to me,” admittedly he hadn’t been as present as he could have been the last few years but he and Geralt had still been travelling together regularly.

“I’m looking for a Djinn.”

“A Djinn. No Geralt. That is a tremendously bad idea. I – I’ve heard of Djinn wishes and they always, always, go wrong.”

“It’ll grant me wishes, it’s in this lake somewhere and I can’t FUCKING sleep.”

“I don’t mean to play priest’s ear, or anything,” not that he had much to do with very religious people, Geralt’s friend Nenneke thought him, unfortunately, a horror, but Geralt respected them, “but this seems more like rubbing a salve on a tumour? There’s more we can do-”

He’d learnt early on to change the subject whenever the new Princess of Cintra was brought up – especially since Pavetta and Duny had died and Geralt’s guardianship became more inevitable.

“Not exactly addressing the root cause of the problem? Maybe this sleeplessness had got something to do with what the druid Mousesack said to you in Cintra?” and he throws caution to the wind, “You know the Law of Surprise? The princess?”

Jaskier thinks about mentioning something Marina had said about destiny but the Djinn’s anger, its own magic, its own desire to be released is causing invisible ripples across the lake, attacking the bank, drawing the net towards the amphora and –

Geralt pulls it out of the net.

Pretending to be interested in the wizard’s seal, Jaskier gets close enough to grab it.

Geralt was so out of it he didn’t notice Jaskier’s too sharp teeth, his pointed ears, his slightly translucent skin.

They fought over the amphora. It broke. Geralt won, he had the seal. He had the wishes.

Jaskier was not appeased, he needed to do _something now_. He had half a mind to wade into river and proclaim outrageous wishes to the sky so as to make himself a target.

But Geralt had the wishes. Geralt couldn’t say a thing, Djinn’s are tricksy. If Geralt wished for sleep he may never wake up. If he wished for his obligation to the child surprise gone, a 6-year-old girl in Cintra might drop dead.

So Jaskier did the only thing he could think. He embraced his power; pulled chaos from the lake and the trees around it. He felt his root spots glow and –

-he gripped Geralt’s face in between his palms, his sharp nails holding Geralt in place. He pressed his forehead to Geralt’s hating himself as the Witcher struggled as Jaskier sang a melody without words. It was angering the Djinn but it couldn’t touch him.

Geralt’s eyes began to flutter, the trees whipping in the wind as they were buffeted by the chaos around them. The lake burst its banks, swirling in high waves, dowsing them both, almost rousing Geralt but the Fae stood firm.

Geralt wobbled. His eyes fluttered. He swayed and collapsed on Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier sank to his knees. He withdrew his hands and let the chaos fade.

He was covered in sweat. His clothes reeking of the vodka he’d been drinking, milk turning in his stomach. He’d bitten his lip and blood ran in rivers down his neck onto this chemise.

He checked Geralt’s pulse.

Now what. He could feel the Djinn, watching, waiting for Geralt to wake up.

Jaskier was drained. At full power he could probably release the Djinn, cut its ties to Geralt – it had not yet commenced its contract after all (a very small loophole and Fae were good with loopholes – but singing the lullaby to Geralt had taken a lot out of him. He was out of shape.

Jaskier hefted Geralt over his shoulder and towards Roach.

“Please. Please. Trust me girl, please.” She knelt to allow Geralt and Jaskier onto her back.

Jaskier sighed. It was going to have to be that mage’s house.

x

The first door he tried, the one with the polite sign on the door in the centre of town, revealed and empty house. So Jaskier probed the area and found an energy at the Mayor’s residence.

The Mayor’s house was grand with a proper gravel driveway and clipped hedges that made Jaskier’s lip curl.

He was waylaid by a man wearing a gold breast plate.

“The mayor sees no one,” the man says, leering, “he’s busy.”

“We’re here for the mage.”

“As I said. Busy,” the man leers again and Jaskier has had enough. If he were powered up, he’d lean forward, place a hand on the man’s forehead and give him a baby, human-sized, version of the song he’d given to Geralt. Unfortunately, he’s bone tired so he resorts to kicking the man in the face. The man falls to the floor immediately.

He rides up to the door and knocks.

The door is flung open by an angry mage.

“Whoever you are, I hope you know I had plans for tonight!” then she takes in the sight of them and becomes curious, “Well aren’t you the odd couple.”

“Can you help or not?” Jaskier said, through gritted teeth, Geralt slumped over his shoulder. Getting him off Roach had been a pain. He could feel her probing the energy around them, deciding.

She’s beautiful. Black hair, violet eyes. Red lips painted with perfect precision. Eye makeup to die for. A black dress with cut-outs around the neck-line. A star choker around her neck.

“Bring him upstairs,” she commands and holds the door open for him.

Once in the bedroom he unceremoniously drops Geralt on the bed.

“So what happened to him?”

“A Djinn. Then me.” Jaskier replied, leaning on the bedpost in exhaustion.

“And how did a mutant anger a Djinn and a Fae in such a short space of time?” she asked, her eyebrows raised incredulously.

“He’s a Witcher. He wanted to Djinn to sleep. The Djinn was angry. I sang him to sleep before he could – well, can you release the Djinn. He’s not wished for anything yet.”

“The famous White Wolf, I assume the moniker is your doing?”

“I have done wonders for him. Truly. I’d hate for him to screwed over by an angry Djinn.”

“The only way to release a Djinn is by expelling the wishes, though your kind do love loopholes,” she pulled back Geralt’s eyelids in examination.

“It can be done, it just takes more power than what I, currently, possess,” he gestures towards her, “I’d rather like to get this done before he wakes, and without draining an entire forest in the process.”

“I expect more payment than flattery,” the mage said, “You’ve unfortunately ruined what I intended to be quite a stimulating evening.”

“What do you require?” Jaskier replied carefully.

“At full power, could you restore something that is lost?”

He knows she doesn’t mean jewellery.

“And what have you lost, milady,” he says sweetly, though he is exhausted.

“I want a child. Could you help?” and she stands close to Geralt, one hand on the Witcher’s chest, feeling the heartbeat.

“I do not think our species are particularly compatible. Human’s grow in wombs. Fae may be made in a similar way to humans but we grow in the ground.”

“Even changelings like yourself?” she asks turning to him.

“Even me.”

“And if I were to want a changeling?” and Jaskier stiffens slightly, “Relax. I want my own child. Or at least my choice,” she replies. Jaskier quickly performs his own medical examination, feeling her vitality and chaos vibrating through the floorboards. The hidden remains of a twisted spine, a misaligned jaw, the flakes of ovaries disintegrated with overexposure to magic, and an empty space.

“I could restore your womb but it would be useless. Magic leaves its effects. All Witcher’s are sterile from forced exposure to magic. It’s the same with mages but surely you know that?”

She nods resigned, “I perhaps thought your kind were different.” It was bitter.

She turned and traced her thumb over the place on Geralt’s arm where the Djinn tally would be.

Oh, sky above, not another person looking for wishes in all the wrong places.

“The Djinn was angry. It’ll twist whatever you say,” Jaskier warned.

“Stop telling me what I already know,” well Jaskier would be pissed too he supposed.

“You can owe me a debt, as thanks,” the mage said, fully aware of her word choice, “and I’d like one more thing-” like she hadn’t asked for a lot already.

She rounded on him, “- your name. Your full name.”

Fuck.

“Why would you want that?” he said, trying not to let nerves bleed through.

“So that, when I’ve healed your friend, you’ll go away,” she said, looking up at him with violet eyes. She approaches him. He feels pinned like a butterfly on a collector’s wall. She reaches out, tracing the blood staining his chemise.

Her brow creased in query, “I’ve not had dealings with Fae before. I’ve read extensively, of course. How long is your fascinating friend out for?”

“A day at most. He needs the rest. He feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. Ah, he’d hold up the sky if he thought it’d do some good,” Jaskier sends her a sad smile and she zones in on his teeth. He lets himself be examined.

“I thought Fae had antlers and wings.” She was playing with him, flirting slightly.

“Not all of us are so blessed. Some have… other attributes,” He could find himself _very_ grateful indeed if Geralt came out of this unscathed.

As if reading his mind, and to be honest she probably had, she sobered slightly,” Go clean yourself up. There are clothes in the dresser. I’ll examine him whilst you wash.”

“Does the blood bother you?” Jaskier flirted.

“It’s less the blood and more the fact you smell like a distillery,” she said unimpressed, dismissing him.

The bathroom was in the next room and he stripped quickly. He wasn’t stupid enough to leave Geralt alone with a mage, especially one as driven as Jaskier suspected this one was.

The wash he gave himself was perfunctory – washing the blood, sweat and road dust out mechanically, usually he’d think it away but he hadn’t the energy. He took a moment to roll each shoulder – stiff from dragging Geralt along, he’d give Roach more sympathy from now on.

He got out of the bath. He liked them, but they weren’t the bone relaxing indulgence they were for Geralt. (And the Witcher had to be practically forced into a bath no matter how much he purred once he was submerged in the water.)

Jaskier was doing the laces up on his borrowed trousers when the mage came in. She’d obviously hoped to catch him naked.

“The clothes fit then,” she said, eying his bare chest unashamedly.

“Black isn’t quite my colour, dear lady, but no doubt it’s a suffering I must bear alone,” she smiled at his dramatics and he towelled his chest hair under her watchful gaze.

“Can you help him?”

“Yes, I think so,” she replied, “It may take time. The rest of the evening and all night.”

“As long as you need,” he knew he sounded desperate, he couldn’t lose Geralt to a malevolent Djinn. He pulled on the shirt, also black.

“Payment up front,” Ah.

“However, may I repay my debt, dear lady?”

“A favour. Not right now, I’ll call for you. And I’ll have you name now,” she smiled at him pleasantly.

“Hm. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Jaskier, at your service,” and he bowed, low, “and may I _have_ your name, esteemed sorceress?”

“You may _not_ **have** my name. However, you can _call_ me Yennefer. You do not have power over me,” she said as he rose, “I’ll need to work in peace. So, amuse yourself.”

“I’d like to see him. When he wakes he- he’ll be angry with me. Let me have one last moment.” He pulls on the doublet, “It’s a little tight. You’ve sized me up scandalously well.”

“Somehow I feel you can be scandalous enough whatever you wear,” and Jaskier can’t tell if that’s a complement or not.

He crosses to the bedroom. He looks at Geralt, lying there looking more peaceful than Jaskier’s ever seen him.

Then he sees the sigils on the bedroom floor and sighs in his naiveite. Of course she wouldn’t let a Djinn’s power go so easily.

“The Djinn won’t give you what you want,” he pleaded, he couldn’t care less about her, ripping herself apart, but Geralt is vulnerable right now and relying on the pair of them.

“Can you imagine the power that thing has?” Yennefer asks, stepping between him and the sigils.

“Yes. And bottling it up for personal use isn’t going to endear you to it,” the Fae that had been trapped over the years flittered through his mind and spun there.

“It’s none of your concern. I’ll free your friend. What I do with the Djinn is my business.”

“It’ll tear you apart,” and he made the mistake of grabbing her arm.

She rounded on him; eyes ablaze.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Jaskier,” and, without his consent, his feet stumbled back. He tried to reach for Geralt but his feet wouldn’t cooperate.

Every step he took led him further away from Geralt and Yennefer.

He screamed, the house rattling as he was forced out of the front door. Windows shattering as he was forced down the path.

x

Geralt came-to with a sharp pain in his arm and a feeling akin to warm water rapidly leaving his body via his hand. He sat up bewildered, his head muggy after an unexpected, unscheduled, nap. Immediately years of training and his mutations kicked him into alertness in response to a high-risk dangerous situation. The building was shuddering, a hailstorm battering at the windows.

Where the fuck was his sword?

His medallion was going crazy, practically jumping off his chest.

There was a witch, a sorceress, kneeling on the floor, chanting.

Geralt assessed the situation with his very limited knowledge. He’d been by a lake looking for a Djinn, then Jaskier had appeared, they’d fought and-

-he didn’t have time to reel in the shock the memory produced because something black and swirling was sucked in through the open window towards the sorceress.

Whatever it as – and he hopes it was the Djinn rather than a part of Jaskier – would tear her to shreds.

“Let it go!” He yelled.

She ignored him.

“It’ll tear you apart!” he entreated.

“Piss off Witcher. Your Fae is outside. Leave. Now,” and she chants in elder, summoning the Djinn to her.

Feeling more energised than he had in a while, it was amazing what several hours of sleep and a bolt of adrenaline could do, he charged Quen around himself and sent Aard towards the sorceress, hoping to knock her concentration.

It worked, for a moment – he’d taken her off her guard. The Djinn, because that’s what it had to be, slipped back. The sorceress screamed and pulled – a magical tug of war capable of levelling the house and killing all occupants.

He had to cut the rope.

He tried Aard again but the witch deflected. He tried protecting the Djinn with a weak Quen but it wasn’t having it. Geralt narrowly missed being clawed by shadowy talons.

Fuck.

In a last ditch attempt he tried Axii, pulling all the energy he could and shoving it inelegantly at the mage. He hit her shield like a sledgehammer and felt her lose control for a split second. It was just enough – he had no hope of controlling a mind so well protected but all he needed was for her thoughts to be distracted enough so he could just – he dove forward and smudged the sigils, knocking over a candle.

The tug-of-war snapped, it’s anchor damaged. The Djinn ricocheted off the wall, the ceiling cracked on impact. It escaped through the open window.

The sorceress’s built up chaos exploded, bringing the roof and the surrounding walls down.

Vaguely he heard a shout as a beam shattered and rubble descended up on them.

He woke up on the ground floor bruised, exhausted and nauseous from travelling via portal, but alive. The sorceress’s unconscious beside him. He prods her gingerly.

She groans then pushes him off her.

“What did you do? You stopped me, didn’t you?! I nearly had it. I didn’t need you or your bard’s help.”

“You had shit all. What the fuck were you thinking trapping a Djinn?” he asked, too tired to sound properly annoyed.

“Because fishing for one was _such_ a good idea!” she snarked back, “You let the Djinn escape. Who knows what havoc it’ll wreak not that it has no vessel at all?”

“No more havoc than you. Djinn’s are only dark creatures-”

“-stop telling me what I already know. I had a plan you know!”

“And that was going swimmingly (!)”

“It was. Like a drowning fish…”

He had to laugh at that. She smirked.

And then he kisses her. He doesn’t know why, he’s super buzzed and glad not to be crushed under a building. He’s finally had a sleep so he’s feeling pretty good –

-and then she’s on top of him and –

A bird, a magpie, flutters into the room through the smashed window and Jaskier materialised, hands on hips, looking furious.

“Well I’m glad you think this is the occasion, the pair of you! It’s pure dumb chance that neither of you are dead, quite frankly,” he squawks, and the mage rolls off Geralt with a groan.

“Oh, because singing a Witcher to sleep was much better (!)” the mage said, sickly sweet.

Yes, because that had happened, _because Jaskier wasn’t human_. Well he had always known _something_ was off.

Jaskier deflated slightly and looked a little sheepish, “Ah, yes. Well I worked with what I had and-” he seemed to fold in on himself even more, “- I think Geralt and I might need a – hear me out?” he implored, meeting Geralt’s eyes with his own very bright blue-green orbs.

“Well,” the mage said, standing, “I suppose I’ll be off. Jaskier,” she nodded at him, “We’ll see each other again. Goodbye Geralt.”

Jaskier twisted his mouth bitterly but replied, “Until then, Yennefer,” and bowed slightly at her. And with that she, Yennefer, opened a portal and left through it.

Then it was just Geralt and Jaskier. Jaskier still stood; hands on hips, slumped slightly. Geralt still lying on the floor, covered in dust.

“You’re Fae,” it wasn’t a question yet still Geralt waited for a Jaskier to confirm or deny it.

He nodded and Geralt looked at him properly. Slightly pointed ears, eyes you could drown yourself in, freckles that shone gold in the dawn light, skin a little too pale for a human, razor sharp teeth and nails.

Fuck, he’d just turned into a bird.

All of this swirls around and around Geralt’s brain, Jaskier’s clean, _floral,_ scent washing, and mixing with the lilacs and gooseberries left by Yennefer, undisguised through the rubble and awakening parts of Geralt’s mind that lately had been too stressed to relax.

What he said was: “Explains the heartbeat.”

Jaskier seemed to relax a little but he wasn’t off the hook yet, “I’m still pissed you sang me to sleep. And what the fuck do you owe that mage?”

“Oh Yennefer. A favour,” Jaskier said, picking grit out of his nail, “She did save your life, so that’s something. Only then she decided to become a Djinn vessel and she sent me away before I could stop her.”

“Sent you away?” Geralt had told Jaskier to piss off multiple times and that had never worked.

“I gave her my name and she sent me away. Must have lost her concentration at some point because here I am but-” he sighed again, “Come on you. Roach is outside and I’ve got a room at the inn. Lets – lets sleep this off.”

Geralt waved off Jaskier’s helping hand and got to his feet of his own volition. He could feel himself distancing himself from Jaskier again but –

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Jaskier sighed, “I don’t know. At first, I wasn’t sure where Witcher’s stood with my kind. Then it felt too late. I. I never meant to hurt you..”

“You put me to sleep,” Geralt growled, angry, it felt like a betrayal.

“I thought it comparable to enslaving an angry Djinn. Admittedly it could have used more finesse but-” he defiantly held his chin up, “I won’t apologise for this Geralt.”

Fine.

If that’s how Jaskier wanted it.

Fine.

Geralt was going back to Jaskier’s room at the inn. He was going to sleep for as long as he fucking could. He relaxed infinitesimally at the sight of Roach, happy to see his swords attached at the saddlebags. He was less glad that she’d been left tacked up all night. He goes and greets her, resting his tired forehead to her.

He hears Jaskier pick through the rubble, looking for something, and decides he doesn’t have the time for the inclination to pander to the bards every whim.

He’ll go to the village, he’ll rent his own room and Jaskier can lump it. His plan is foiled when, halfway, down the road, he hears a faint ‘fuck’ from back at the mansion. His medallion hums and a few moments later a small bird flutters down to sit down atop Roach’s head, an action, Geralt happily notes, she resents.

“Fuck off bard,” he growls as Roach tries to flick Jaskier off with her ears.

Jaskier puffs up his plumage, glares at Geralt and hops down into his bipedal form so as to walk next to them.

“If this is what I get for saving your life,” He blusters, “So what if I’m not fucking human? I didn’t think you cared about stuff like that.”

Truthfully, Geralt didn’t know why he was so bothered. The Fae as a species had neither a benevolent or malevolent reputation. You crossed them, they crossed you. They could be tricky to deal with and deeply protective and could bear a grudge like no tomorrow – Geralt saw all these qualities in Jaskier.

And Jaskier had a good heart; a little vain, flirtatious, no self-preservation, but generally, when it came to brass tacks, he was a good man deep to his – well not boots – sharp-nailed feet. That’s what he’d been looking for, in the destroyed mansion, Geralt mused, his boots, currently carried in one swinging hand.

**x**

They ended up getting run out of town. The mayor, unjustifiably, blaming them for his house being demolished.

So, the next night is spent in a thicket of trees the opposite side of Rinde to the Djinn lake. Figuring that Geralt knows all, well almost all – Jaskier hasn’t quite hit the confessing his love stage, especially so soon after Marina – Jaskier decides to indulge.

He lies flat down on the grass, limbs outstretched, and lets himself feel his surroundings.

It’s bliss. He lets the humming, the melody of nature, wash over him. It makes him feel vaguely homesick – well he’s had one drowner of a day – and he gives in. He can feel the forest. The squirrels running up and down the trees. He can feel the ivy curling around an oak tree at the edge of the wood. There’s an abandoned badger set that Jaskier just wants to expand to make a small burrow for the night. Usually such homes are on the other side of the unseen, in their own world - where is it safe from humans – but Jaskier wouldn’t be the only one to build a burrow on this side.

Eventually he’s pulled back into the night by Geralt, who’s looming over him and prodding Jaskier’s shoulder with his boot.

“-kier. Are you-” and Geralt looks deeply uncomfortable at his next choice of words, “- communing with nature?”

“Yes. There’s a bandit camp on the next left fork, incidentally, so I’d avoid that-” Jaskier sits up and says soberly, taking Geralt’s question for what it was, an olive branch, “ – forgiven me yet?”

“Hm,” Geralt replies, but his eyes more. His smile practically sings.

Jaskier grins, flashing his teeth, yeah, they were going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Next Chapter more Yennefer!


	6. Coincidence and Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the next 6 years, Yennefer had had the misfortune of running into her Fae and that Witcher more times that she’d care to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s a shorter one. Yennefer’s POV between s01e05 - Bottled Appetites and s01e06 Rare Species. This one was posted at the same time as the previous chapter, so don't miss that one!

Over the next 6 years, Yennefer had had the misfortune of running into her Fae and that Witcher more times that she’d care to think about.

She encountered the Witcher first. She’d been riding through a small town outside Novigrad, surrounded by wheat fields, when she’d heard the screech of an angry Griffin.

The fight was finishing as Yennefer approached, both sides tiring. No doubt the Witcher could easily win this fight but he’d probably prefer to do so without further injury. So, for completely selfish reasons, she assured herself – she hadn’t stopped his man being ripped apart by an angry Djinn so he could lose his arm to _Griffin_ – she sent a spell designed to knock the Griffin off its game.

It worked and the Witcher, Geralt she reminded herself, stabbed it deeply in the neck as it was distracted. Geralt sat back on his heels a moment, before pulling himself to his feet and yanking his sword from the beast’s neck.

“You’re welcome,” she said pointedly, maybe that’s why the bard kept him around – no ‘thank you’s’.

He began hacking the head off and Yennefer watched dispassionately.

“Jaskier’s not with me,” he intoned, wrapping the head in a length of cloth – pity really that Griffin’s were so majestic.

“I noticed,” Yennefer replied gesturing around the lone hilltop, “Somehow I think he’s difficult to miss.”

He looked confused; his stoic face pressed into a frown.

“I heard the battle and came to-” _help_ , “- finish it,” they stared at each other across the bloodied carcass.

He looked awkward now there wasn’t a battle, too big limbs, too much muscle attached to big yellow eyes that were far too expressive.

_What do you want?_ The eyes said.

What _did_ Yennefer want?

“Do you want a drink?”she offered.

X

They ended up by the side of a river drinking the best wine Yennefer could conjure.

Reclined on a fur, Geralt was tending to his injured shoulder – a blow he’d been ‘too slow’ to duck, as he’d explained self depreciatingly.

“I thought mages were all holed up in courts?” he asked, biting off the length of thread.

“I was. But court life is so dreadfully dull,” she poured herself more wine.

“Hm,” he agreed.

“Do Witcher’s find themselves in many courts?” This is, after all, the first Witcher she’s ever met. What had the mutagens changed, she wondered.

“Only when dragged,” he smiled a little. Oh, that that was a joke, if a little dry. She found herself smiling.

“How does a Witcher end up travelling with a member of the Fae?”

“He approached me in a bar and started following me,” it was the opposite of what she’d expected -maybe the Witcher keeping the bard around for extra protection - and so she laughed. His head jerked up at the sound.

“Must be useful,” all that untapped power at his beck and call, the Fae was so loyal, so in love, he’d do anything for the Witcher.

“He’s a pain in my neck,” she shot him an enquiring look, but he just looked away.

“Did you really not know what he was that day in Rinde?” How many months had it been now?

“I knew he was something but-” he shrugged.

“They didn’t teach us much about Fae magic at Aretuza, either,” she muses, staring into the fire, “I’d read about it of course,” another dead end.

She thinks about kissing him, the kiss in Rinde had been deserving of an encore. But she’s tired and the prospect of setting up in another town like Rinde looms on her personal horizon so she’s not really in the mood.

She lets him fall asleep on the rug and the next morning, after and awkward goodbye, he goes to collect his coin and she packs up to find another ungrateful town needing a change.

X

The next time she runs into Geralt it’s about a full year later. He is once again sans bard.

Yennefer is sitting at the bar in a shitty coastal tavern drinking wine. The barkeep hasn’t noticed she hasn’t needed topping up all night and Yennefer plans to keep it that way. She’d had a tedious morning doling out simple remedies to the townspeople and an afternoon scouring the caves for rare potion ingredients. She’d bathed earlier but she could still feel saltwater clinging to her scalp.

Geralt slams into through the door like it personally offended him. From the sound of the coin purse at his hip he’d probably been cheated by the alderman. His already furious expression darkens at the sight of her.

He stomps up to the bar. Patrons studiously ignoring them in favour of their drinks.

“I don’t care what the nature of your deal with Jaskier is but I don’t need checking upon,” it’s the most she’s heard him say.

“Funnily enough,” she replies, as coldly as possible, “This is a coincidence. I’m here to drink. Alone.” Something flashes across his features – a memory – and he looks a tad chastened.

Good.

He fumbles through his next sentence, opening and closing his mouth. She takes pity on him.

“Where is the bard anyway?”

“Oxenfurt. He teaches. In the winter,” he hovers next to her and she kicks back the seat next to her with a sigh. So much for solitude.

He sits down.

“And this… isn’t part of your contract with him?”

“No. I agreed to release you from the Djinn wishes. He gave me his name and a favour.”

“What favour?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I don’t really need a Fae. Not for power or magic…” she trailed off.

He was staring at her intently with dark eyes. He inhales and seems to like what he smells.

Good.

_Well, this night might get interesting,_ she thought as she smiled at him over top of her goblet. She let her eyes trail over his form appreciatively and saw the jolt of surprise flicker through his eyes as he realised what she was doing.

The next morning his side of the bed was still warm but he was already gone.

She quashed the part of her that wished he’d stayed.

X

The third time is not 6 months after the second meeting and this time it’s just the bard.

Yennefer has been passing a morning tending to the needy of the town she’s currently staying in. Not big enough for a court to ensnare her and not so small so as to bore her to tears.

She feels the pull of her contract coming around the corner before he sees him.

Jaskier looks hungover, a queasy quality to the way he clutches his head. He obviously imbibed quite a lot the night before as he doesn’t notice her sitting in her consulting room until he’s at the threshold Upon noticing her he abruptly goes to turn around to leave.

“A minute, songbird,” Yennefer calls after him. He turns and flashes her a winning, if false and actually sickly, smile.

“This is not a habit. I promise you,” he assures her unconvincingly.

“What? You don’t usually drown yourself in a bottle of vodka and cream before noon?”

“I am…I am not prepared for this. I came for a hangover cure.”

“Can’t you just magic one?” She asks him derisively; she would have thought it well within his capabilities.

“Well I was hoping not to alert the local mage to my presence, only it turns out to just be you, so-” he shivers slightly, rubs his fingers together, and Yennefer feels the chaos bend a little then snap towards him. His faces flushes with healthy colour and he stands a little more alert than a few moments ago.

“I’m never drinking that much again,” he groans.

“Lightweight, are you?” he sits down across the circular table from her.

“’bout the same as a human, honestly. Honey’s a bit of an intoxicant. So’s milk. Spent the first few years of my childhood slightly – why am I telling you this?” he scrunches his face up. Adorable.

“I don’t know. Friendly Face?” she drawls, “Geralt with you?”

“No. We parted 3 towns ago. He was off following the Yaruga after a pack? - A shoal? – of drowners and if you’ve witnessed one drowner hunt you’ve seen them all. Unfortunately, drowners do not make good inspiration. I did try but-”

“I’m guessing you’re here for the festival,” she interrupted him, he was right, drowners were tediously dull.

“Yes. For the competition. First place is as good as mine, place is full of hacks,” he’s straightening his clothes now. Preening like a peacock, pulling at sleeves, magicking away spots of dirt and last night’s revelry.

She hides a smirk.

“Are they as vain as you? Perhaps put a mirror before them, distract them so much they can’t possibly perform.” And she laughs outright when he splutters in indignation.

“Well. Well- screw you,” he eventually replies. Yennefer laughs at his, truly awful, comeback, she’d have thought a _renowned poet_ could do better.

He does win the competition, Yennefer watches from the back as he plays the crowd. It’s a mesmerising experience, the front row seem totally swept up in his adrenaline, everyone else is singing and dancing along.

She basks in the atmosphere until the end. When she leaves, she nods at him through his adoring crowd. He nods back and blows her a kiss.

Damn bards, she thinks fondly.

X

The fourth time a magical blast and the bard’s voice calls her attention to them first. She rounds the thicket of trees just in time to witness a bandit trip over his own feet and land on his own sword. The spray of blood coats Jaskier’s fancy doublet.

“Rather messy,” she comments from atop her horse.

He jumps in surprise, or feigned surprise, at her approach, clutching the right side of his chest as if fearing a heart attack.

“Sweet trees around us, don’t do that Yennefer. My poor heart can’t take stunning sorceresses in the best of moments.”

“Disagreement?” she nodded at the bandit.

“Pity really, we were getting on rather well, he was just about to kneel to my every whim – get your head of the gutter, I wasn’t looking to get the pox – when _GERALT_ disrupted my concentration with an ill-timed Aard,” he shrugs, wiping blood off his face as nonchalantly as if it were lipstick smudges.

So that had been the blast.

“Incidentally, think twice before lavishing Geralt with your affections whence you next see him. The man hasn’t had a wash in at least two weeks, man smells like – well you wouldn’t believe. Fortunately, my winter was lucrative-” as if summoned, Geralt came up the bank and Jaskier shouted, “Look who I found!”

“Yen,” he flashed a grin, his eyes catching sunlight.

“Geralt,” she smiled back.

“Wonderful,” Jaskier clapped is hands together and turned to her, “are you coming with us?”

“I’m heading on into the city,” Yennefer said, “the Duke has requested a mage.”

“Need a hand,” Geralt and Jaskier asked her at the same time. She’d be more annoyed at them thinking she couldn’t hand herself if their true intentions weren’t as plain as the noses on their faces.

“I’m still deciding on that favour, bard,” she replied and he looks disgruntled, “but I suppose riding into town with an entourage wouldn’t be terrible.”

“Wonderful. This Duke doesn’t need entertainment, by chance?” Jaskier asked, picking through the bandit’s pockets, like a magpie.

“He’s more concerned with his crops at the moment and the peasants are revolting, but if it comes up, I’ll let you know.”

Geralt climbs aboard Roach, who had placidly ignored the fight.

“I’ll be staying at the inn tonight. I’m sure they won’t mind your warbling. Geralt and I will just have to find some way to amuse ourselves.” She meets Geralt’s gaze with a challenging eyebrow; the right side of his lip rose in an agreeing smile.

They did amuse each other, first with a heated, but mostly playful, argument on alchemical compounds, then by a comparison of Aretuza to whatever Witcher castle Geralt had been brought up in.

“- and they didn’t even teach us the really interesting stuff!” She said, impassionedly, realising they were almost leaning into each other.

“Like what?” Geralt asked, eyes sparkling, pupils wide.

“The fun stuff. Hallucinogens. One time Anica and I,” she sobered aslittle at the thought of her lost friend, “Anica and I, we stuck out one night and we’d indulged a little and the stars rained down on us like a meteor storm and the sea danced before our eyes,” she smiled at the memory. She could almost feel the saltwater spray on her face, the cool night air catching their skirts as they danced under the moon.

“I once Axiied Eskel into drinking a tincture of catmint, he was purring for hours,” and she snorted into her drink. Perhaps he was more than a good lay. Maybe she could let this Witcher and the bard into her life.

“He still hasn’t forgiven me,” Geralt said, amused, into his ale.

A tumult of cheering signified the bard had finished a particular popular song.

“That song doesn’t half get stuck in your head. I hope it works?” Yennefer inquired.

“It has. People pay more. Especially if he’s the one singing.”

“Magic?”

“Charm,” Geralt said wryly, looking over at the bard’s crowd, “and sheer force of nature.”

“Have you slept with him?” she asks bluntly. She’s been curious for a while now; it wasn’t as if the bard was unpleasing to the eye.

“No. He’s- He’s a friend,” and Yennefer understands. Jaskier is a _friend_ and Geralt is holding on to that. Doesn’t want to change something _good_ for fear of wrecking it.

“Well he’d probably be up for it,” she says instead.

“Hm.”

They sleep together that night as well. It starts with a shared bath, magically expanded, for more practical reasons than foreplay. Jaskier had been right, Geralt was in desperate need for a wash.

The sex is slower and they smile more than before and the next morning he’s still there. He kisses her shoulder before he gets out of bed and she watches as he redresses in his armour. She allows him to, clumsily, button up the back of her dress.

They descend to the main inn together and Jaskier’s eating breakfast with a lightness that suggests he also didn’t spend last night alone. There’s also a massive love bite on his neck glaring like a beacon to all.

“Fun night?” she asks him casually.

“Wonderful,” he says, “The places a blacksmith’s fingers can take you-” and Geralt ducks his head to stop an actual smile break out. Yennefer rolls her eyes.

X

The next time they meet, it’s again shortly after winter and they are once again set upon by bandits. Geralt and Jaskier are clearly camping, if the leaf in Geralt’s hair is anything to go by.

The fight is short, bloody, and ends with a dramatic beheading after the lead bandit refuses to flee like most of his cohorts.

“Geralt! The love of – Hello Yennefer – if you think you’re going to tramp through our camp, dripping bandit blood you have another thing coming. There’s a lovely stream by the row of aspens that you can wash in, leave your armour here and I’ll eviscerate it or… something…” Jaskier trailed off under Geralt’s glare, “Fine. No more magical repairs.”

Yennefer watches in interest as Geralt strips off his armour methodically. Jaskier starts fussing over the state they’ve got into, demanding Geralt tell him where each new hole or repair came from. Evidently, they’ve only recently re-met after a Winter respectively teaching or hibernating. No doubt last night Geralt was regaled with the latest Oxenfurt gossip.

“Yennefer are you staying?” Jaskier asks, holding one of Geralt’s patchwork shirts up to the cool spring sun. Even as she watches, stiches fall out as the fabric knits itself back together at Jaskier’s will.

She stays. Only to help clear up, she tells herself.

That night she sits by Geralt around a smouldering fire, stars twinkling above them, Jaskier idly thumbing his lute, and feels at peace for the first time in a long while.

Warm. She feels _warm_.

x

It keeps happening, them bumping into each other. A part of her wonders if it isn’t destiny trying to get Jaskier to repay his debt to her.

And Geralt is surprisingly sweet under his gruff exterior.

After an hour of meeting Sir Eyck she’s prepared to murder him. But she still hasn’t given up hope of regaining what she lost. (So, few studies have been done on Dragon hearts that perhaps it _is_ the key to restoring her womb.)

So, she accepts King Niedamir’s quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter there be Dragons, or rather Rare Species Part 1. 
> 
> I'm still doing minor adjustments to it, but it should be up on Saturday. I do go back to 'proper' work (as in going into work rather than working at home reading booklets on health and safety) tomorrow :( (We should not be opening imo, ) but I should be on schedule.
> 
> Stay safe, stay home if possible, wear a fucking mask (I've made 4 this last week because whilst my work says they're supplying them I bet we'll run out) and wash your hands.
> 
> See you next chapter! Comments are appreciated as are kudos.


	7. Enigmatic Dragons and Quiet Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is glad he hadn’t frozen the two horse thieves because he soon realises Roach’s saviour is a fucking Dragon with two scary bodyguards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognisable Dialogue is from s01e06, Rare Species.
> 
> Incidentally the reason why Geralt is more, let’s say *open*, with his feelings to Yennefer than in show is because here he has none of the guilt surrounding any, intended or otherwise, consequences of the Djinn wish.

Jaskier is glad he hadn’t frozen the two horse thieves because he soon realises Roach’s saviour is a fucking Dragon with two scary bodyguards.

The Fae and the Dragon survey each other over the corpse of the stupidest thief. The staring contest is interrupted by Geralt tossing a wyvern’s head into the dusty clearing.

“Those are mine,” Geralt says to the remaining would-be thief, who rather sensibly legs it back to town.

“Really Geralt is that any way to announce yourself in polite company. This woman just killed a man with her bare hands for trying steal Roach,” Jaskier brushes imaginary spots of wyvern blood off his red trousers.

“Maybe she’ll make a better travel companion.” Which Jaskier thought was _rather harsh, Geralt_.

The two bodyguards are surveying him with confused disgust – they don’t know what to make of him.

“My name is Borch Three Jackdaws, call me Borch. My companions are Téa and Véa. I’ve been looking for you Geralt of Rivia.”

Téa and Véa nod stoically and Jaskier is torn between his open appreciation of Geralt, still worked up from his fight – slight sheen of sweat, muscles rippling - and embracing the new crush developing in his stomach at the sight of two tall woman wearing leather and armed to the teeth. Dear gods he had a type.

He flashed them a toothy, slightly sharp, but not too Fae smile, complete with glittering eyes – they may be friends with a dragon but best let them warm up to him first.

He stood himself straighter, he may as well go for it. Geralt wasn’t going to wise up to his affections after 22 years, despite the amount of love songs Jaskier had written during their time together. Besides there was Yennefer to consider, Jaskier didn’t yet know if she would consider sharing.

The four of them ended up in the nearest tavern – where else?

He’s not really paying attention – two beautiful warriors at his back does not sooth his blood in _any_ way and he can feel Yennefer nearing through their open contract – but he’s just present enough to make a pointed “Your Welcome” when Borch acknowledges Geralt’s fame, and order himself a small Est Est. He looks around the tavern. She’s not here, good. He sits opposite Téa and Véa, passing them their drinks. 

Borch is monologuing to Geralt about a green Dragon in King Niedamir’s mountains but Jaskier isn’t paying attention. Passing Téa and Véa their drinks hadn’t been a smooth move, they didn’t need him to do that.

They really were beautiful, so elegant and deadly.

“You have the most beautiful neck, like a… sexy goose,” no, fuck, he meant swan – they were the ones who could break a man’s arm, right? (though when you thought about it there wasn’t much difference between the two birds) - quick cover it up:

“Guzzling.” Oh, well. He’d just go back to his forest and rot among the autumn leaves.

Borch is explaining neighbouring politics. A Dragon hunt? Ooh this could be exciting. Obviously, they wouldn’t _kill_ it. Why would Borch, a dragon, want to kill another dragon? Unless this was a rivalry thing? Oh no, Geralt, let’s not get mixed up in territorial disputes!

Deciding that Geralt should probably debate this himself, he turns again to Téa and Véa, who still unfortunately look like they want to push him into a bog.

“- the tale of two Zerrikanian’s and their poet lover!” Was he being forward? Of course, he was. Go big or go forest… as no one ever said, actually. He sighed, every time Geralt was nearby he immediately got performance anxiety. Who wouldn’t next to a gorgeous specimen like Geralt?

“Oh, we are so doing this,” he turned to Geralt, trying to shift the attention from his utter mortification.

“You’re wasting your breath, Borch. I don’t kill dragons,” Geralt says and Jaskier doesn’t know how to break it to him but that probably has the opposite effect than the one Geralt’s going for.

“Depends on the treasure,” and Jaskier pricks his ears up at that, actually he feels them point a little and hastily tucks them back under his camouflage, this hunt has more to it than Borch is letting on.

Jaskier takes a pull on his drink and watches in amusement as two of other teams are introduced - rowdy dwarves, sinister Reavers – there’s always one evil team, every poet knows this.

Borch makes a hypnotic - do dragons hypnotise? – speech to Geralt that fails.

Jaskier, with a sinking feeling of dread, anxiety?, in his stomach as he feels the answer approaching, interrupts to ask, “Who’s the fourth team?”

And here she is. Striking.

“Oh no,” he says, not out of denial but more of a plea at the universe, at destiny, because he knows what Yennefer will want with a dragon and he’s damned if he’s killing one for her.

Of course, Geralt says, “I’m in,” as soon as he sees her. Stop thinking with your heart Geralt, or your dick…

The next morning after a night lying awake next to a snoring Geralt - unable to sleep with the knowledge that Yennefer’s tent was set up just outside and her escort was farting his way through the night in the room across from Geralt and Jaskier -Jaskier rose to ingest a watery bowl of porridge, not a meal he considered fit for strong men about to set off to maim a dragon.

Geralt and he were collecting any relevant belongings, Geralt tying a bored Roach to a post.

A wonderfully angry altercation between Yarpen, the dwarf, and a thieving Reaver diverts Jaskier’s attention from the long walk ahead and he surreptitiously exchanges every item in the stolen pack with sand – it’ll grow heavier the further the pack gets from its owner. It may be reckless but the presence of Yennefer has left him restless.

“Jaskier, travelling bard, and Viscount de Letten-” and the dwarf interrupts him to offer Geralt some unsolicited advice on horse selling. Some people have no manners.

“Suddenly everyone wants to get their hands on Roach!”

“He means we won’t make it out alive,” Geralt clarifies.

“Of course, we will. You’re… _you_. And I’m… _me._ The only thing to worry about is-”

“- How is it I’ve walked this earth for decades without coming across a Witcher and then the first one I meet I can’t get rid of?”

Well this sounds like typical Yennefer/Geralt foreplay, best Jaskier interrupt whilst they were in the midst of this _very_ busy clearing:

“Well perhaps destiny really wishes me to repay my debt to you, which I will not do by maiming dragons, I might add.”

She turned those, very beautiful, captivating, terrifying, violet eyes on him and, in another life were he not bound to her he might- actually, let’s not go there…

“Funnily enough I don’t need _you_ to slay a dragon for me,” she said, scathingly.

“Yeah well,” Jaskier snook a look at Sir Eyck, scoffed, then, thus temporarily released, left Roach to be the third wheel in their eye-fucking.

When this quest thing actually starts, he’ll give himself one last chance to charm Téa and Véa. If it goes badly, he’ll give up.

X

Geralt’s mission here is to save the dragon, despite what Borch wants. Probably from Yennefer. He does realise he’ll most likely have to fight a whole team of Dwarves and a group or murderous bandits but he hopes to sway her onto his side before it goes too far.

He realises it’s a shit plan, the only Clear Weather card up his sleeve being Jaskier – a being who physically can’t move against Yennefer.

“-the danger here isn’t the Dragon,” he says to Borch, as they head up the mountain.

“Nothing scares you, Geralt of Rivia,” Borch says laughing.

“Then you don’t know Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Yennefer scares the shit out of Geralt. Not only could she kill him with her pinky finger, she could do it whilst wringing every emotion he’s ever had out of his stomach before pulling them out through his nose. Every time he looked at her, his stomach churned and his heart wanted to skip a beat.

“Then may she be the worst encounter.”

Coming across the scorched remains of the forest, and the revelation that therefore they may have a desperate dragon on their hands, does not allay his fears. Even Jaskier, rambling about his courting technique in a vain trying to chat up Borch’s bodyguards, doesn’t distract him from Yennefer walking so near with the idiot Knight.

Then the bard wanders off, promptly left behind by the women, and comes across the Hirikka. Geralt hasn’t seen one in decades, believed they were extinct.

The Fae backs off slowly, pursued. _Seriously._

The Knight, Sir Eyck, draws his sword and goes to attack the creature but he inexplicably trips down at the Hirikka’s feet. Eyck tries to get up but he seems to be pinned by an invisible weight weighing down his shoulders. Geralt side eyes Jaskier who is looking on with ‘fright’. Hmm.

“Feed it then, Geralt,” Jaskier says, still playing the human, “or else it may eat _dear Yennefer’s_ escort,” he sounds so delighted that Yennefer glares at him.

Geralt sighs, casual in the face of a roaring creature and pulls out a game bird from his pack – tonight’s dinner – and tosses it over the creature’s shoulder. The creature turns immediately after it and the company relaxes.

Sir Eyck gets to his feet with a sudden breath and Yennefer goes to him.

“Sir Eyck you could have been killed,” Yennefer says, making a good show of fussing over him, and Geralt can practically hear Jaskier rolling his eyes.

Geralt can’t look at the pair, she’s checking his face, though considering he did nothing but lie on the ground he can’t see why – maybe checking for any after effects of Jaskier’s magic?

He turns away, instead exchanging commiserating look with Jaskier.

Dinner that night was sombre, eating jerky and bread whilst sipping weak ale. The Knight, the prick, going on and on about how he should have killed the Hirikka for food. That would have at least been funny - seeing Eyck shit himself, Geralt thought and, beside him, Borch and Jaskier seem to think so too.

Yennefer seems to be listening intently to Eyck monologue about winning the quest but she looks bored.

Good, the petty part of Geralt’s mind thought.

“I cannot wait to serve you, my lord,” the insincerity is easy to hear to practiced ears, it was almost dripping from her lips.

“How would you like to serve me witch?” a Reaver says, leering at Yennefer. He trips, almost landing in the fire and Geralt glares mildly at Jaskier, who’s twirling his quill innocently.

“Debt repaid?” the bard asks Yennefer, hopefully.

“Not even a little.” Yennefer smiles, faux sweetly, at Jaskier, who pouts.

“Lady Yennefer, may I escort you to your tent?” Eyck asks, looking ill. Geralt doesn’t know exactly what Jaskier is doing to Sir Eyck, but he looks to be in gastric distress.

And Yennefer is still playing some sort of game, “Will you be joining me?”

“My lady, I’d never degrade your honour,” Eyck replies, such a Knight response, and Geralt feels his scowl deepen.

“I hate to break it to you, that ship has sailed, wreck’d, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean,” and Geralt hits Jaskier in the arm. Whatever’s plaguing Eyck gets worse and Jaskier laughs as he runs off.

The conversation turns to politics. To Cintra. Geralt’s stomach turns at the thought of his child surprise. Borch makes a cutting remark about Nilfgaard that hits Yennefer and sends her scowling off to bed, she’d once said she’d been considered for Nilfgaard but had begged for Aedirn instead. Does he go after her? Would she want that?

The dwarves leave for bed too. It’s just Geralt, Borch, Téa, Véa and Jaskier.

“We’re all about to have new evil overlords and dragons are, in fact, a thing,” Jaskier is trying to make a point here, but Geralt doesn’t know what it is. The Fae know Dragon’s exist, they used to exist in harmony with each other, trade pieces of hoard for Fae protective magic. Another alliance which broke down with human over expansion.

The two warriors laugh, mockingly.

Jaskier continues, trying to make a point that Geralt finds himself missing, “Of course they are, I never thought I’d see one _in person._ Makes me wonder why we’re heading up a mountain to _hunt_ one.” He’s even letting some of his _other_ visage through, his eyes shining, root spots glistening slightly. Fuck Jaskier, they’re in a camp with murderous bandits, a group of desperate dwarves, two warrior women who’d killed a man for attempted theft, and a violent knight who went to draw his sword on a helpless creature. This isn’t the time to lose control.

“They’re numbers are dwindling -” Geralt said, hoping to distract from Jaskier’s less-than-human qualities. It seems to work but he can’t understand why Jaskier’s just put his head in his hand and waved at Borch - in a way that could be considered apologetic?

Geralt’s just explaining gold dragons when Jaskier interrupts, “Gold dragons must be so _… enigmatic_?” he stresses the last word and is glaring at Borch in a way that makes nonsense. Geralt is just about to open his mouth, to tell Jaskier that Gold Dragons died out years ago, when Borch makes a comment about Geralt becoming a Knight that sours the conversation, especially when the company laughs – admittedly at Eyck’s expense.

x

Yennefer rises the next morning to find Eyck gone, his armour still sitting where he left it.

“Has anyone seen my escort?” If that jumped up Fae creature has-

One of the dwarves finds him dead and, unfortunately, Yennefer believes Jaskier’s disbelief and disgust at Eyck’s method of death – if Jaskier were to kill anyone it wouldn’t be whilst they were taking a piss in the middle of the night.

“Fuck,” well there went that plan. Eyck was good with a sword and would have made good dragon bait at the very least.

Geralt catches her halfway up the mountain.

She’s furious. That bastard Bolholt. She’d rip him limb from limb.

“What are you really doing here?”

“I’m here for the dragon. There are certain healing properties its rumoured to possess.” A dragon was older than Fae. She needed her choice back.

(This could change the lives of mages, not just herself. To be able to _truly_ choose the life of a mage. A life where you didn’t have to give up a part of yourself for a steady job, a roof over your head, three square meals a day, or the respect of the people around you.

She supressed a shudder at the nightmares that had haunted her before ascension - of Tissaia throwing her back into her step-father’s cold and draughty barn for not being good enough to ascend. Of her ascending only to be laughed out of court for not being beautiful enough for whichever royal ruler who only listened to a pretty face.

So, she had gone willingly, for a measure of willingly, and had bargained her body for a life not cold and starving.

What kind of choice was that?)

A dragon’s heart couldn’t change that. It couldn’t go back in time and give her youthful body the respect it deserved; it couldn’t make other people see beyond skin deep. She’d never get back her old face, her old back, they were ‘repaired’, changed irrevocably - her currency for a life not starving – but she could perhaps regain what had just been _taken._

To hear Geralt mock her, it angers her, “They’re not made up!” Under-tested, sure, but if anyone was going to experiment it was going to be her. She knew she could go above and beyond known magic.

His next words cut a knife through her, “You… a mother.”

The amusement in his voice; she wanted to hit him.

“Do you think I’d be a bad one?”

“Definitely. Yen. A child? What could you possibly want with a child?”

“They took my choice. I want it back.”

Hearing that Geralt went through something similar to her doesn’t exactly lessen her desire to recover her womb or her worries but it does settle her a little. She’s not alone. Except, of course, she is. He still mocks her, like she hasn’t thought this through. Like she hasn’t thought what life could have been like if that child had lived.

“Do not patronise me!”

And then…

The Revelation. That he _has_ a child, one that he’s left uncared for.

It just angers her even more. Anger bubbling through her veins.

He clearly hadn’t meant to say that. He has a child and _he’s_ lecturing _her._

“I can take care of myself,” she scoffs at him, why would she need him?

But it would be nice to travel with someone who was at least as fucked up as she was. Besides, there was a dragon on the other end of this quest that would need slaying, she still had a little Bird she could use the _help_ of.

This way she could keep an eye on her songbird, and watch him squirm of course.

Geralt’s looking at her anxiously

“Come with me.”

And she relents.

X

On seeing the very narrow boards, Jaskier wished he could just transform into a bird and fly to the top of the mountain. Unfortunately, the dwarves are still present. He fears for the rest of the company.

Well, not Borch; Dragons have wings.

Of course, with the dwarven party up front, it’s up to Jaskier, the least obviously armed of their party, to go first and nearly fall.

When Borch falls, suspended above the ravine, Jaskier is about to step in but Borch sends him a quick glance. He’s got wings, he’ll be fine.

It’s still horrific, when Téa and Véa follow. _Borch’ll catch them._

There’s something going on here, something bigger and, whilst Jaskier knows Borch is alive, this whole quest unsettles him – though that may just be Yennefer’s presence.

Why can’t she just let him pay up, rather than dangle him on the end of a string?

Once at the top he finds Geralt sitting overlooking the canyon, it’s one heck of a view.

“You did your best. There’s nothing else you could have done,” he so wants to tell Geralt Borch lived but unfortunately he knows honour. If Borch didn’t say anything then –

“Look why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion. If we leave at dawn we may make it back to the tavern by nightfall,” he says, with levity, trying to get Geralt’s brow to unfurrow.

“Hm,” Geralt says with a small smile so Jaskier takes that as a win.

“We could head to the coast -” he’s never truly been, always wondered if life would speak to him there as it did in forests. If becoming a fish would be any different to being a bird?

Lying on a beach with Geralt and just quietly _being._

“- get away for a while.” He thinks about mentioning Borch again but doesn’t, instead saying the words himself, “Life’s too short, Geralt, even for creatures like us. We should do what pleases us while we can. Take a break.” It’s as close as he’s come to confession since the night of the Cintran Ball, his voice dipping and breaking slightly. Geralt’s glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Sounds nice. Composing your next song?” He turns back to the stunning view. Jaskier just looks at Geralt.

“No. I’m just thinking about what pleases me,” _You_ , Jaskier thinks, and they sit quietly for moment. Quietly existing, together.

X

After his conversation with Jaskier, Geralt decides to go to Yennefer’s tent that night. They get down to it almost immediately.

She’s kissing him but it’s not what he wants. He needs to lay it out, his intentions, his … feelings.

“I came for you,” and she recognises the confession, offers one of her own:

“I was afraid the mountain would take you from me -” she says, he smiles at her, “– but now I’m afraid it took your senses instead.”

What?

“Only my nonsense,” he replied, fuck what did that mean? That’s what he gets for trying to be poetic.

“I quite like your nonsense,” She replied and he smiled. Maybe poetry did work. She smelled so good.

“The moment I dread most, every time you leave, is when you’re really gone,” because whilst she was here, he doesn’t question it, doesn’t second guess, doesn’t ask what the hell’s he doing. Is it a relationship?

He wants this conversation over; he’s reached his word count for the day.

He wants her to hold him, so he kisses her.

-and then he’s undoing her dress, and –

“And they say Witcher’s can’t feel human emotions,” she teases afterward as he makes sure to stay awake.

“They say whatever justifies despising our kind.”

She hums sleepily, “Do you regret becoming a Witcher?”

“Hard to regret something I didn’t choose.” And he briefly tries to imagine the lives she suggests; another life as a farmer or a stableman, but he can’t. It stirs the bile in his stomach.

“I dreamed of becoming important to someone. Someday.” Yennefer confesses. It resonates. To be loved and held…

He closes his eyes briefly and remembers his loneliness before Yennefer, before Jaskier. He thinks of waking in cosy beds. Yennefer curls slightly on her side when they share. Jaskier sprawls, whenever they’ve shared a bed in various taverns but curls up when sleeping outside. With both Geralt resists his urges to burrow into their warmth, to wrap them in his arms ~~(to keep them safe).~~

Yennefer mistakes his contemplation for boredom and they laugh a little.

This is nice, lying next to each other and smiling.

“Before we met, the days were calm and the nights were restless. Now you’re important to me,” he can feel himself drifting off.

“I’m glad Jaskier brought you to me,” Yennefer says quietly, touching his cheek, “He’d be pleased at your poeticism too.”

“Hm. He’d gladly take credit,” Geralt replies sleepily, and falls asleep to her caresses.

The next morning, he tries asking her to go back, to accompany him and Jaskier back down the mountain, to abandon the quest, but she won’t hear of it and suddenly he’s two steps back.

“I’m not leaving until I’ve killed that dragon.”

“Yen, no!” he should know better.

“It’ll solve everything,” and he’s about to argue back when they notice the dwarves are missing.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun Dun...


	8. Confrontation and Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, Jaskier awakes as Yennefer leaves the camp. Geralt’s calling after.  
> Jaskier gets to his feet sleepily, “Geralt, what-?”  
> “She’s still going to kill the dragon,” and he runs after her, scowling like a bear with a sore head.  
> Jaskier curses and, throwing caution to the wind, becomes a sparrow – tucking his lute into his chaos as he did – and flits after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Hunt Part 2 - shorter than the previous chapter. It does contain the mountain 'argument' but it goes differently to canon so...  
> Recognisable Dialogue is from s01e06 Rare Species.  
> This was posted at the same time as the last chapter.

After Geralt had left to go to Yennefer the night before, Jaskier had acquiesced to the dwarves’ request for music. The evening then comprised mainly of the bawdiest songs Jaskier could remember, an ode to Rhys Rhysson the Dwarven Low King of Legend, and a ditty about famous dwarven lover Cassanunda which had devolved into an argument comprising mainly of insults about various company members’ ancestry.

After that Jaskier had bid them goodnight, curled up on his bedroll - arms protectively wrapped around his lute - and sunk into a fairly deep sleep.

The next morning, Jaskier awakes as Yennefer leaves the camp. Geralt’s calling after.

Jaskier gets to his feet sleepily, “Geralt, what-?”

“She’s still going to kill the dragon,” and he runs after her, scowling like a bear with a sore head.

Jaskier curses and, throwing caution to the wind, becomes a sparrow – tucking his lute into his chaos as he did – and flits after them. He flaps past the frozen dwarves and arrives as Geralt does, just as Téa and Véa pull their sword on Yennefer.

“How?” Yennefer asks, confused.

Jaskier decides to make his appearance; visibly shocking the two warriors as he lands on two feet next to Geralt.

“The poor thing,” he says, looking at the dragon. Then, seeing the egg, “Oh the poor thing. That explains…”

And Borch makes his entrance with brimstone and sulphur.

“Sir Witcher and his sorceress,” Borch greets, “and the Bard. Hello again.”

“Impossible,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs, “I tried telling you. I _hinted_ even!”

“When the dragon was injured,” Téa explains, “her cry was heard by Villentretenmerth.” Jaskier winced at the true name of a powerful being, being used so casually in his presence.

The Egg.

“She was protecting her baby,” Yennefer murmurs, and Jaskier relaxes. He wouldn’t have to kill any dragons, oh thank the water of the clouds. Yennefer might cross many lines, but this wasn’t one of them.

“So I came to find you, a knight who was taught to save dragons instead of kill them.”

And that’s when the Reaver’s attack, with a perfect sense of dramatic timing, Jaskier notes.

“Boholt’s mine,” Yennefer claims, and Jaskier agrees, she can have him.

He could just knock everyone out but that would be so very draining to do and he might accidentally damage the Egg, so he shifts and suddenly he’s on all fours – all claws – and roaring. His human form is uncoordinated for fighting and he doesn’t want to ruin this suit, but a panther…

He picks off the stragglers, witnesses a very bizarre move from Yennefer and Geralt – nice use of Aard but is now really the time for smooching? – and narrowly avoids getting slashed by a _very_ rude henchperson with a dull blade.

He rips out, at least, three throats. It’s been ages since he tasted meat that raw, and he’s never had _human_ before. That thought sends him reeling and before he knows it the fight’s over. Yennefer ending it by putting a knife through Boholt’s neck.

He stretches, arches his back in a way he can’t when he’s shaped like a bard, then pops back on to two legs. He still has the taste of blood in the mouth, in fact blood is still covering most of his lower jaw, and he spits it out with disgust.

“Fuck, that was -” he spits again, looking around at the carnage, “Whooh!”

And that’s when the dwarves show up and he stands back to let Téa and Véa defend their charges.

Borch comes out with the dragon teeth and Jaskier recoils, running his tongue over his bloody fangs.

“Tell the King if he is not satisfied, he can have the body of a dragon dropped on his royal wedding free of charge.”

Yeah, Jaskier’s going to throw up, so he does, off the side of the mountain.

Jaskier sits on a rock and watches Borch subtly talk some sense into Geralt about his child surprise, and Jaskier is thankful that Yennefer at last knows _that_ secret.

“ – and Thank You, Yennefer of Vengerberg. Destiny must smile upon me to have brought you to me,” Borch said smiling.

“It’s not destiny. We owe her a debt,” Geralt says. Jaskier winces, he can feel the ensuring conversation is going to go badly.

“Is _that_ why you keep me around? A debt?” and, yeah, Jaskier knew that was a bad choice of words Geralt.

“Am I some Lord to be appeased Geralt? To sweet talk?” and oh dear _fuck,_ what had Geralt tried to talk her out of, probably the dragon hunt.

“ _My_ business is with your _Bard_ , Geralt, not _you._ I thought -” but what she thought was lost to a scowl.

“Yen. I didn’t. Destiny – I only meant that we keep running into you due to your contract with Jaskier,” and Jaskier had had enough of conversations where he’s being talked about but not part of. He gets up from his rock and joins the conversation.

“That’s probably true. Doesn’t explain why you two would run into each other without me. Maybe destiny _has_ got plans for the two of you,” and he walks into the circle, “like, I don’t know, a sorceress desperate for motherhood and a Witcher with a child surprise. A little too on the nose to be a coincidence, I think.”

“No one cares what you think Jaskier!” Geralt growls, though Jaskier can tell he’s just angry about destiny being brought up.

“I think he’s right. Horribly right,” Yennefer says and, oh no, _Jaskier’s_ angered her now, “You have what I want, Geralt. And you throw it away!”

“A child isn’t like a new coat or a dress -”

“Let’s all calm down,” Jaskier tries, but they both ignore him.

“– and you flit around like a tornado, wreaking havoc. A child is no way to boost your fragile ego, Yen!”

“I’ll take advice from you about children as soon as you take responsibility for the one you bound to you then abandoned,” 1:0 to Yennefer, Jaskier privately notes with a wince.

Borch decides to get involved.

“The sorceress will never regain her womb,” well Jaskier could grow her a useless one, just like he offered her in Rinde, but fair enough, “Geralt you must stop running from destiny, war is upon us and is no place for a child, and the contract you speak of -” Borch says and is interrupted -

“- is over. I release you,” Yennefer spits at Jaskier.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Jaskier says, tiredly, for all his usual flippancy, “It has been made.”

“Then I hope to never see either of you again,” Yennefer says and storms off.

“You wanted to show me what I was still missing? There she goes,” Geralt says angrily to Borch, who brings up destiny, once again.

Jaskier can see it crash down upon Geralt, the weight of it all, Yennefer and the child surprise. He watches as it starts to eat at Geralt as Borch walks away.

“What a day, huh?” Jaskier tries sitting down where Borch had a moment before, “Why don’t we -”

“Dammit Jaskier! Whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it!”

A bolt of anger goes through Jaskier at that, a bolt that makes him loose control of his features – his teeth point, his eyes shimmer and his claws, still sharp from the fight, lengthen, “That’s not fair, Geralt.”

“The Child surprise, Yennefer – all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands!”

“Right,” and Jaskier knows what Geralt means, Jaskier is bound to Yennefer, who Geralt rather loudly just broke up with, but –

“You’re not the one bound to her, you know! So, don’t go blaming _me_ for _your_ dysfunctional relationship,” and he’s in Geralt’s face now, eyes the colour of blue flame glaring at Geralt.

Absently he sees Geralt step back. Yeah Geralt, not just your friendly neighbourhood bard, a fifth of the bodies by the dragon cave are down to his teeth. He’s fucking Fae.

“And as for the child surprise?! Borch is right!” and he prods Geralt in the chest, “You’re hurting right now. But if, _if,_ Cintra falls -” Jaskier shakes his head, Geralt is looking at him, wide eyed, frozen.

Jaskier slows down, “Geralt. You cannot control _every_ aspect of your life. And the things you can’t control? It’s not always destiny. It’s just living. What I do know is that you cannot make Yennefer do anything she doesn’t want and if that child, _your child_ , is anything like Pavetta, she’s going to need magical training.”

“You could do it,” Geralt says, a quiet snarl.

“I’m not, and have never been, human, Geralt. I could not teach the child any more than you could – small bits here and there, but chaos? That’s Yennefer,” and he goes to cup Geralt’s cheek in both hands.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Geralt intones, turning away, wrenching his head from Jaskier’s grasp.

“No, no, Geralt, we are talking,” because Jaskier knows how it’ll go otherwise, it’ll never be brought up again. They’ll go another 6 years before it’s mentioned.

“What’s left to be said? You’ve said it all. Yennefer and I are bound by fate to raise the child surprise (!)” the derision plain in his voice.

“Geralt -”

“Fuck off, Jaskier.”

So, he does, with a bitter, “See you around, Geralt.”

He collects his lute from his rock, picks up the rest of his belongings from the remnants of the camp, recently deserted by the dwarves, and becomes a goat – what a better way to traverse the mountain terrain? – only popping into a robin to cross the broken dwarven passage.

He hopes Geralt will have calmed down and come to his senses by next time they meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassanunda is a Dwarf from the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett (GNU Terry Pratchett) and is known as a renowned lover. Similarly, ‘Rhys Rhysson the Dwarven Low King’ is from Discworld.
> 
> Comments and Kudos appreciated. Next chapter should be up Monday.


	9. Chaos and Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissaia remember the lesson she taught all her girls.  
> Sometimes the best thing a flower can do is die.  
> Not this flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip to The Battle of Sodden.  
> This one is very short. It’s more of a transition chapter (in which alot happens).

Yennefer stands in the tower at Sodden. Reaching out to her allies, her friends.

“Can anyone hear me, Tissaia?”

“I can.”

“They’re closing in.”

And this is a clusterfuck. Nilfgaard murdering their way North. Killing innocent lives. She’s felt so useless for so long. What use was it to council Kings who didn’t want to listen, who had no real ambition besides slaughtering their neighbours.

“It’s working,” and she feels them dying. Succumbing to Triss’s spores, choking slowly.

There’s no pleasure. No horror. Only relief.

More soldiers come. Coral breaks their bones. Sabrina and her refugees send projectiles to the oncoming soldiers, shrapnel and acid reigning down on the forest.

“Who’s next?” Adrenaline floods through her. Who dares mess with the mags of Aretuza? She feels invincible.

She sends Vilgefortz to try and kill the Nilfgaardian Commander but he’s going to quickly, too cockily, depleting his chaos, attacking too obviously. He isn’t _listening._

And he’s down.

“They’ve breached the gate,” and before Yennefer and Tissaia can react to that, set up a proper defence, arrows reign down upon them.

They are losing.

_Losing._

She thinks briefly of calling her bird, calling in her contract, but then Coral and Atlan fall and soldiers are at the gate –

“Triss, can you buy us time?” and, as Triss makes-safe the door, Yennefer runs to find Tissaia.

The enemy is within. Yennefer hears Triss’s cries, her door burning –

-Sabrina stabs her in the abdomen. There’s a worm in her ear. The keep explodes.

Yennefer goes flying, barely managing to land safely. Sabrina isn’t so lucky.

Her ears are ringing. Her friends, her family, are dead or dying.

Where’s Tissaia. At least Triss is alive.

Hope. Hope is not lost. They can still fight.

More soldiers are coming.

“ _We can still fight.”_

Then Fringilla comes to her, insincere lips dripping with lies and bloodshed. No. She can fuck _right_ off.

“ _Is anyone out there?_ Is anyone still alive.”

Nilfgaard attacks in the night. Tissaia is alive but weak, holding them at bay.

“The Northern Kingdoms are close; we can’t give up.”

This is a cause she’d die for. Protect the North. Defeat Fringilla and all her decay.

“This is your legacy.” Tissaia implores.

“I can’t!” and she’s never been good enough, always had to fight to be half as good. Didn’t Tissaia teach her that?

“You can -” – and Yennefer, her throat choked, clutches her chaos-

“ – forget the bottle. Let your chaos explode.”

-she knows what needs to be done. This’ll kill her, she’s sure of it.

But _what_ a way to go.

Every resentment, every comment, she buried – pretended she didn’t care about. Every person who ever made her feel worthless? She lets them fuel her before she pushes them away, she sends them _far_ away.

And she stands on the rock, overlooking an army fuelled by hate and she allows herself to love, she loves so much.

Tissaia smiles at her one last time before –

She burns. She feels the forest burn, uses its life to fuel her chaos.

It’s licking up her arms, fire burning her arms. It hurts, oh it hurts.

She can feel Tissaia safe, Triss safe but injured.

She can feel the Nilfgaard army die under her power.

She can’t hold it much longer. The flames reach her heart and she screams; it thuds loudly in her ears. She’s falling, falling, her eyes closing.

A name.

A name is pushed forward into her mouth by destiny…

… it falls from her lips.

_“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Jaskier.”_

And everything fades to black.

X

Jaskier has had a pretty shitty year, if he was being perfectly honest with himself. Currently he’s on the run. For a Fae with his attributes it’s quite an easy thing to do, exchange two legs for four and no one gives him a second glance. Well no one without magical training.

Currently he’d curled up in a tavern in a ravaged town, somewhere north of Toussaint, in the guise of a tabby cat – not his first choice of animal, but not a _bad_ choice either. Cats were clean and the humans didn’t mind if he stayed as long as the mice and rat population was kept down. And there weren’t a lot of food opportunities, truth be told, no one was going to feed a stray cat after Nilfgaard invaded.

His kind were out of the war, hidden in their unseen pockets. He’d tried his best to fight back on his own but Nilfgaard had a legion of mages and he was no match for them.

The White Wolf’s Bard currently had a, offensively low, bounty on his head. If they caught him, torture would no doubt feature in his future, leaching his power and twisting it until he shrivelled enough to powder into their perverse potions. And they’d try to get information about Geralt and his child surprise out of him.

He’d felt a stab to his abdomen several hours ago, was Yennefer amongst the fighting? He’s not seen her or Geralt since that day on the mountain.

He stops washing his paws and rose from his seat on the bar. He padded around the bedrolls of the injured refugees camped on the floor – one or two of the younger ones reached out to pet him but he shied away – and left the tavern through the broken window.

It was night now. Soldiers had marched through here this morning on the way to Sodden and more soldiers had set up on the Mayor’s house. Another occupied town ravaged by Nilfgaard.

Jaskier squinted slightly. A rogue spell had struck him near the eye during the last raid, and his right eye vision was misty, even at night.

Something, destiny, told him to keep walking.

And then he felt it. A tug like a butcher’s hook to the stomach pulled him onwards.

He yowled.

He hears Yennefer’s voice, as if in his ear, _“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Jaskier.”_

What did that mean? What did she want? He didn’t know. His body knew. The call of a contract, a debt to be repaid.

He was running, as fast as he could, out of town. Halfway down the road, past the gallows, he shifted, grew until he was 15 hands high and galloping as fast as he could north to Sodden.

x

The battle was over. It could not truly be said it was won, too many had died for such an optimism, but the Nilfgaarians had retreated, seen off by the Temerian reinforcements.

Tissaia was weak but standing. She looked over her three charges. Sabrina, the worm removed from her ear, lay glassy eyed staring at the ceiling, her bones shattered to splinters when thrown off the tower. Triss lay in the next cot, chest and neck bandaged, nerves severed. She’s fretting, trying to get up and help but unable to feel anything through damaged hands.

And Yennefer….

Tissaia had found her half buried in ash at the outer edge of her destruction. She’d evidently tried to portal herself to safety. Now she lay unmoving. The fire had left burn marks covering her upper body and her hair was missing in patches – singed away.

The drain on her chaos had left worse damage. The scars from her surgery now marred her face and back, no longer hidden. She remained youthful, because she had never aged, but the scars of her years, every scar she’d ever had, stood pale against her brown skin.

Dry red patches, like rashes or hives, adorned her body where her chaos had broken out. Other parts had blackened and withered.

Tissaia remember the lesson she taught all her girls.

_Sometimes the best thing a flower can do is die._

Not this flower.

Yennefer could do so much more.

The early morning peace of the camp is disturbed by a piebald stallion bolting through the hastily erected military tents into the destroyed keep. He looks wild.

Men, soldiers and tired refugees, step up to calm the beast before it does any damage but the horse just shimmers before them and –

A Fae stands before them. She assesses him, looking for weaknesses. His hair falls at chin length and curled around his ears. His bright eyes dart around, though his right has white clouds covering sea green. He’s wearing grimy, but well cut, clothes – high waisted green trousers, matching unbuttoned doublet, and an embroidered chemise that’s loose at the collar. He wears no shoes, showing off toes good for gripping.

He looks tired.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg. I’m here for her,” he says urgently, his voice slightly hoarse.

“State your business.”

“I have a contract with her. A debt I must repay. She called me here late last night.”

Tissaia knows when to fight and when to back down. This creature may be physically tired but he has all his magic at his disposal and she is weak from the battle.

“She’s through here,” and the Fae follows her into the only room with 4 intact walls and a roof.

Once in the room the Fae immediately goes to Yennefer. One hand goes to her pulse, his right to her forehead.

“Come on, you crazy witch. I’m looking a right state right now. As always you outclass me. Loving the ash-y look. Very this season -”

“Can you save her?” Tissaia asks.

“Not here,” and he bends at the knee, and pulls Yennefer into his arms, one arm at her back and another under her knees.

“Where are you taking her?” She can feel the bond between Yennefer and the Fae but she’s still reluctant let her charge go.

“Somewhere safe.”

X

Jaskier walks a day and a half with Yennefer in his arms, crossing the Yaruga and carrying on until he finds a forest safe enough – untainted by either side of the war.

He sets Yennefer down at the edge of the clearing. There’s an abandoned rabbit burrow he could expand to shelter under whilst Yennefer heals.

Theoretically he knows what to do. He stands in the middle of the clearing and centres himself. He feels his power. The trees around him, the earth beneath his feet.

The veil is so thin. He needs it thinner.

He walks in a spiral, slowly making larger circles, lengthening his stride until he’s walking the same circle around and around. If he were a mage, he’d be chanting elder ‘round about now but instead he tells the world what he wants to happen; convinces it, pushes, and…

… releases his built-up energy.

A ring of small and unobtrusive stones now lie in the clearing about 7 foot in diameter. Jaskier stands at the centre.

The doorway isn’t completely opened, one couldn’t cross through it – there isn’t a Fae community around here, no other doorway – but it is thin enough for chaos to bleed through.

Thin enough for his purposes.

He goes back to Yennefer and picks her up again. He carries her to the ring and sets her down within it. It envelopes her. Its protective magic curling around her at his permission. It latches on and begins the slow process of nurturing her back to health

Jaskier sits down, back against a tree, and breathes.

Running the entire night then walking so far has taken it out of him.

Not bad for a diet of mice.

Talking of…

He draws water from the nearest trees into his hands and drinks thirstily. He crawls to Yennefer and pours some into her mouth. She stirs, pained.

She can recover here comfortably and in peace, it wasn’t the stolen manor houses or magically expanded tents she was used to but it also wasn’t an exploded keep amongst the remains of smoking Nilfgaardians.

He places his hands upon her arms and feeds her little tendrils of his own chaos, not a lot – he has to maintain the gateway alone after all – and prods her decaying and withered chaos scars back to life to start the long process of rejuvenation.


	10. Quiet and Promises Fulfilled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer awoke groggily. Any moment now her mother would hammer on the barn door, telling her to wake up and feed the pigs.   
> The door needed fixing again, a warm breeze danced across her face. The floor was damp, the roof was leaking.  
> Except the straw against her fingertips felt more like grass and there was the rustling of trees above her head rather than the shuffling of birds nesting in the rafters.  
> She cracked her eyes open and it was as if glass was stabbing into her temples. She could feel a presence to her left – a friend, something told her. A fragile thread was connecting her to this creature. She felt a caress of calm, a ripple of energy bubbling over her up from the grass and then a jolt of sudden energy before tiredness crashed over her like a wave.  
> A lullaby is the last thing she registers before oblivion takes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the last were posted on the same day, so check that out! Enjoy!

Yennefer awoke groggily. Any moment now her mother would hammer on the barn door, telling her to wake up and feed the pigs.

The door needed fixing again, a warm breeze danced across her face. The floor was damp, the roof was leaking.

Except the straw against her fingertips felt more like grass and there was the rustling of trees above her head rather than the shuffling of birds nesting in the rafters.

She cracked her eyes open and it was as if glass was stabbing into her temples. She could feel a presence to her left – a friend, something told her. A fragile thread was connecting her to this creature. She felt a caress of calm, a ripple of energy bubbling over her up from the grass and then a jolt of sudden energy before tiredness crashed over her like a wave.

A lullaby is the last thing she registers before oblivion takes her.

X

Watching over Yennefer healing was fairly boring. He could compose to his heart’s content in this little clearing but inspiration had dried up like a well. This is why he had never settled down before, why the hermit life Geralt pretended to love did not suite Jaskier at all.

Though, if barding didn’t work out, he could certainly open a dressmaker’s shop. The sight of Yennefer in her invalid shift had prodded him, on their first day in the clearing, into adapting some of his shirts into nightdresses or underdresses. On day two he’d had the _brilliant_ idea of duplicating a couple of his doublets and letting them out enough until they could be moulded into something resembling a proper dress.

Perhaps, he wondered, this is where all the myths of Fae creatures spinning thread and mending shoes came from?

She stirred occasionally but only woke once so far. Probably with something on par with the Melitele of all hangovers raging through her skull.

Jaskier stared at the moon and the stars, watching over them. He hadn’t got round to hollowing out the burrow yet, the nights were still bearable and Yennefer should be warm enough in the ring.

X

The next time she awoke it was at night. This alone allowed her to open her eyes. The stars twinkled through an overhead canopy.

Jaskier was singing a tune under his breath,

_“I know how the moon must feel._

_Looking down from the heavens._

_Smiling at the silly things,_

_We put ourselves through,_

_Missing magic each day…”_

“That’s a bit on the nose, bard,” Yennefer croaked, her head spinning. Her body felt fused to the grass.

She felt him start, “Yikes – Yennefer you never cease to have the element of surprise. How – how are you doing?”

“Like shit,” her eyes fluttered comfortably shut.

“Yes, well. When you chargrill half the Nilfgaardian army that tends to happen,” Jaskier came into view squatting beyond a row of rocks near her elbow.

“Where am I?”

“Groundcherry Wood, East Sodden. More specifically, you’re in a faery ring – Don’t Move! This ring is what’s keeping you stable.”

Slightly chastened, she settled back onto her bed of grass.

“We’ve been here two weeks; you’ve slept the entire time. So how do you feel? I’ve stopped the chaos damage spreading as best I can.”

“Can’t feel it. My chaos. It feels like a hole in my chest,” she said numbly, trying to reach into herself and finding an empty cavity. She feels sort of disconnected and when a tear runs down her cheek she only registers it when it runs over the corner of her mouth.

“Your burns are healing. It’s gradual,” he said apologetically.

Yennefer thought about her face, her body. She can’t bring herself to care. It had seemed so important to have a face ‘acceptable’ for court, to use her chaos to make a difference.

A pretty face to make Kings listen.

It had seemed so worth it. Her currency to a life not spat upon and pushed around. A life where everything was possible, where people would look at her like she was capable.

And how that had turned out. A mage without a court.

“Sodden?” She said, trying to sit.

“What did I _just_ say?!” Jaskier blustered.

“Tissaia?”

“If you mean your scary headmistress? She’s fine. Gave me the ol’ eyeball but she let me whisk you away in my arms.”

“Casting yourself as a questing knight?” she asked dryly.

“And you, my dear, as the beautiful damsel to whom I am no longer indebted to – well almost no longer in debt to. You’ll be right as rain in no time!”

Yennefer groaned.

“I’d have a nap, if I were you. Get some of that beauty sleep you’re always going on about.”

“Fuck you!” She said, weaker than she’d like.

“Well, I do not often refuse such an offe-”

And Yennefer managed to roll onto her side away from him with another groan.

He laughed. For some reason she wasn’t irritated too much.

x

Ciri had known Geralt for several weeks now and, so far, they’ve been slowly travelling north east towards Rivia and Lyria.

It’s strange to think how far she’s travelled in such a short space of time. From Cintra over the Yaruga to Brokilon then through the wood and back south through Sodden. Then she’d met Geralt.

At first, she thought they were maybe going to Geralt’s home, in Rivia, but it turns out he’s not actually Rivian. Instead they’re heading to Kaedwen, following the base of the Mahakam Mountains through Aedirn on their way to a place called Kaer Morhen, where he’d teach her how to defend herself..

He’s not the most verbose person, but then she doesn’t feel much like talking sometimes, nowadays, maybe this war has taken the spirit out of him too. At night she wakes shaking at the memory of her Grandmother’s broken body.

Yennefer, it turns out, is a mage who might be able to help her with her power. Geralt seems to think they’d run into each other eventually.

They’re being pursued, which buffers them back and slows their progress. Bounty hunters and Nilfgaardian scouts who want to take her to Nilfgaard’s emperor. Geralt hasn’t said as much, but they probably want

“I had another dream last night, like the one when you were looking for Yennefer,” Ciri whispers.

“What happened?” Geralt asks, she’s sitting behind him on Roach.

“I was in a forest and a woman was lying, was lying in a clearing.”

“Hm?” which could mean anything.

“She looked injured,” she says, tentatively, not wanting to upset him, “I think it was Yennefer.”

“What was she doing?” he says, his voice gravelling with concern.

“Just lying there. It’s not clear… like she’s protected from view.”

“Is. Was she in a circle?” he asks her and she thinks back. It’s so fuzzy.

“Yes. I think it so. Of stones,” and she feels him relax.

“She’ll be okay. They’ll look after each other.”

“Who?”

“She’s with Jaskier.”

“Who’s Jaskier?”

“A friend. A bard.”

“The one that made you famous?” she’d heard the songs when Geralt left her in taverns for contracts. At first, she hadn’t known they were about Geralt but then one had mentioned him by name and she’d put 2 + 2 together. She hadn’t been the only one and they’d had to double back and leave town quickly.

“Yes. Don’t worry about Yennefer. My job is to protect you. Destiny brought us together and when the time is right will bring Yennefer to us.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“For a long time, I tried to run from destiny. I came to my senses,” and she can hear the slight smile on his usually stressed face.

Something inside Ciri settles, a worry she didn’t even know she had soothed.

X

Yennefer awoke to a pleased exclamation and she sat up automatically.

Agony shot up her spine and she let out a breathy gasp of pain. It’s day. Jaskier, from whom the noise originated, trips over to her.

“Yen! Ah yes. Uh,” Jaskier drops on to his knees at the edge of the ring, pressed his palms to the stones and a boneless sensation ripples through her.

“Fuck. I see where you get your courtly reputation,” she sighs and he squawks indignantly.

“As if I need magic! My mouth and fingers are more than -” he’s puffed up like an overgrown popinjay.

“- adequate?” she countered.

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, scowling at her.

She moves to sit cross legged, registering she’s dressed in a basic shift, “I hope _you_ didn’t undress me, bard?”

“As if I would dare! I like my balls where they are, if _you_ don’t mind! Blame your headmistress!”

There’s a moment of silence, Jaskier powering the ring. His hair has grown to his chin and a scruff decorates his face. He’s shirtless, displaying a surprising amount of body hair and muscle which Yennefer eyes appreciatively. She hadn’t had a proper look in Rinde but now she can see little shimmery freckles, some clustered, dotted over his body, and a distinctive lack of belly button. He’d been grown not born. He’s lither than a human.

He’s also covered in mud.

A large mound of soil sits beside the ring.

“Taken up gardening? Deafened everyone here already?”

“I’ve been building a house. Somewhere cosier.”

“You’ve dug a burrow?” she asks, unimpressed.

He leaps to his feet and gestures dramatically to a bush, “And for my first trick…” and he pulled the ‘bush’ to one side, revealing a hole.

“The walls need doing, rocks, twigs, clay, perhaps, then-” and he grins inanely.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Somewhere for you to recover in peace. Never let it be said that Jaskier does not honour an agreement,” Yennefer politely didn’t say that it was impossible for Jaskier not to keep his word.

“You saved me from being burnt to a crisp, I would have thought that was more than enough,” she said, jaw clenched.

“Yet here I am, of my own free will – for the most part. As I said, you’ll soon be back to terrorising Kings and seducing Witchers,” he said softly.

“And I’m just supposed to lie here in the meantime?” Endless hours of listening to him prattle on stretch out in her mind’s eye.

“Just until you’ve scabbed over,” he commiserated cheerfully.

She grimaced.

x

The day Jaskier deemed her healthy enough to leave the ring was the same day the thin gold thread connecting them snapped. They’d been inhabiting the clearing about 2 months when it happened.

“So, it’s over then,” Jaskier said, far more mildly than she thought he’d be. If it were her – free after years of being bound to one person – she’d be telling him to piss off.

They stood, her shakily, him inspecting his nails, claws?

She sighs.

“What does this burrow look like then, bird brain?” And he grins at her.

It’s like looking at the sun.

Now that the dynamics of the last 8 years are shattered at their feet neither of them has to worry offending the other – not that they’d particularly cared before. Now learn who they are without the contract begging to be fulfilled.

The burrow is… nice.

It’s under a large oak tree and is protected from the elements. It’s not especially big but there is enough room for Jaskier on two legs without hitting his head and is about 12 foot wide.

There’s only one bedroll.

She rounds on him, unimpressed, and, as if reading her ire perfectly, shrinks in on himself in defence.

And carries on shrinking.

A small toad ‘ribbits’ at her and hops up to a small hollowed out shelf. The toad makes a big show of settling down comfortably for a nap.

“Clothes, Jaskier,” she reminds him, determined not to be amused by his antics, and he hops off the shelf and onto the wooden chest under it.

“Well you always were a slimy little -” she recoils as a cold and slightly damp Jaskier sprang from the shelf onto the top of her head, “- get off!”

He complies and lands bard shaped next to her, laughing.

“I can lend you some of my own clothes, others I’ve modified and you can keep.”

“You can go, then, whilst I change,” she knew she couldn’t thank him, “You at least have a decent eye for fashion.”

He nods, pleased, and exits via the tunnel.

Her injuries didn’t exactly hurt, but they were numb and pulled her skin tight.

She chose a light shift in white, extended magically from one of his chemises probably, and a black dress adapted dramatically, and thoughtfully considering their completely different colour preferences, from a doublet and pure chaos.

The material was soft, easy on her injuries.

She was glad there was no mirror.

When she emerged back outside, Jaskier was lighting a fire. He snapped his fingers, sparks jumping from between index finger and thumb, and he blew them into the fire.

“You look a vision, my dear,” Jaskier said smiling at her. He had divested himself of soil and pulled on a chemise – rolled to the elbow and unlaced at the throat.

“If gardening doesn’t work out, I wouldn’t take up tailoring,” though actually the dress is made quite well. She lowers herself gingerly onto the log next to him.

“Well how about world renowned chef? How do you like your venison? Rare, very rare? Or perhaps crispy?”

“Well done,” and he fixes a spit and a hunk of meat over the fire.

“I assure you that I’m a better cook than Geralt. Do you wonder that before Geralt found out I wasn’t human he could have murdered me through digestive trouble at least 7 times? I gave him a thorough talking to I can tell you. At least he shouldn’t be poisoning the princess, now -”

“He found her?”

“-we… last I heard, yes. Some of Nilfgaardians tried to catch me before I fetched you. They wanted information on their whereabouts, I fancy. Almost ruined my right eye vision, and my profile!”

Yennefer didn’t know how to reply to this speech. Geralt still leaves her with mixed feelings. She doesn’t like being told what she can and cannot do, especially where her body is concerned, by a man who is old enough and world-weary enough to at least sympathise.She’s fond of him but communicating with Geralt, who felt like he held the weight of the world on his shoulders yet didn’t talk to anyone, was like pulling blood from a stone.

And she knew _she_ wasn’t perfect. She wanted to be but now realised perfect didn’t exist. It was a lie.

The child. Was she really supposed to teach this girl to control her chaos when she couldn’t even find hers right now?

Suddenly she felt so tired and weak.

Jaskier was still talking, and she let it wash over her.

She briefly awoke as she was lifted into his arms and settled down in the ring.

It was nice.

Safe.

X

Yennefer awoke as dawn broke. A hunk of meat was resting on a clay plate by her head. It was cold but she was hungry. She sat up and ate for the first time since Sodden.

Getting up she stepped over the ring stones – a strange sensation alike passing through cobwebs brushed over her face – and walked around the clearing.

“Jaskier?” she called, not exactly uneasy at his absence but weirded out after nearly 8 years of being able to vaguely sense him.

He sticks his head out of the burrow door, “Why do I surround myself with early risers? Geralt’s always rising with the lark! I’m more of a late to bed, wake up for lunch sort of man, generally… How, uh, how are you this morning?”

“Smarting slightly.

“Maybe an hour in the ring after lunch’ll keep you awake later.”

“And what are we supposed to do all day?” she supposed she could make some elixirs, try to tap into her chaos, perhaps.

“Well I am working on a new ballad, working title: The Nightingale’s flight from Nilfgaard. Though it is bad form to write about yourself. Ooh – The Phoenix of Sodden! How are you at composition?”

“I’m not singing,” then to distract him from a cycle of composition about a battle that’s still raw in her mind, “I could start by giving you a haircut,” she threatened,

“I’ll let you cut my hair, if you tell me what happened at Sodden,” he bargained solemnly.

She felt herself close off. “And have the _glory_ of the battle spread across the continent?” She asked sarcastically.

“No, no. Not at all. I’ve been writing a history of the war. These last few months. It’s what bards do. We write history. Moreover, what we write becomes history.”

He looks so earnest, big sea-blue eyes shining honestly at her.

“Only because you need a haircut. And a shave,” she pretends to be persuaded. He has a point. Sodden is a story that would be better written by their side rather than as a footnote in history should Nilfgaard prevail. Besides this way she can make sure it isn’t as exaggerated as Geralt’s business with the elves was.

“Oh, letting Yennefer of Vengerberg near me with a razor. I may regret this,” a smile twitches at his lip.

He fetches his shaving kit and scissors and settles before her.

He isn’t scared. She could slit his throat yet he trusts her, even though she’d literally held him in debt for years.

Her hairdressing skills left much to be desired, before she graduated from Aretuza she’d never done more than snip off her own split ends and tidy up her fringe and after she hadn’t needed to.

She cuts the back short and gives him a fringe resembling his old one. As she does, she tells him about Sodden. From the moment she ran into Vilgefortz and continued to the moment she let her chaos out and defeated the advancing army. He makes a few queries she didn’t know the answer to– What the worms that infected Sabrina were? What happened to Fringilla? Did she know what they wanted with Cirilla?

The quill eventually stops scratching, long after she finished his hair.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“No one will forget, I assure you,” he says dramatically.

“You’ve got an ego the size of an elephant bard. You’re sure people will read this?”

“I am well known in my field,” he says, like it’s a fact not a boast.

She smiles, quietly at the top of his head, then coughs to distract herself from her feelings.

“Show me your neck, bard,” she said, her voice catching.

He turned towards her, looking up at her with big blue-green eyes. She holds her jaw in one hand, lets him rub shaving soap all over his beard before raising the blade and allowing it to catch the light.

His throat bobs, though through nerves or anticipation she couldn’t speculate.

“Really, bard?” she flirts.

“Forgive me. My life is in your hands,” and his eyes flutter shut as she shaves the first stroke.

He’s keeping his neck consciously still as she shaves him but she can see he’s gripping his thighs tightly. When she reaches his top lip, she is rewarded by a full-bodied shudder. The blade nicks his skin. Blood drips.

“Shit,” she stops.

He quickly clots the blood with a cloth, also wiping off the excess soap.

“Reminds me of when we first met,” he whispers, “You liked the blood if I remember…”

He should look ridiculous, slightly uneven fringe and half a moustache adorning his stupid face and yet…

Yennefer kisses him. A clash of teeth and tongue stealing her breath.

He rises to his knees to meet her. His hands are hovering and she remembers why when she pulls him closer and the burns on her arms cramp suddenly and tingle unpleasantly.

“Argh,” she pulls back and tries to shake the sensation out.

Jaskier sits back on his heels, looking simultaneously flustered and worried.

“Salve! I was going to make one! Though I’ve never been particularly good at them,” he rises and starts pulling out various jars from his pack. They contain leaves in varying degrees of helpfulness.

“I’ll make the salve,” she insists, sighing, something to do at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We met Ciri, only for a paragraph, but she’s here! Also Yennskier! 
> 
> Also, timeline what timeline? The sequence between Sodden Hill and Geralt finding Ciri confuses the hell out of me. 
> 
> Not relevant in this fic but bugging me, Cahir tracking Ciri vs Geralt tracking her? Either Geralt spent a long-time tripping or Cahir got an awful lot done in a short space of time, hiring a doppler, fighting a doppler and fighting at sodden etc. If anyone has a timeline for that, feel free to drop a comment.
> 
> Also all maps of the continent seem to be slightly different. I used the ‘atlasoffireandiceblog’ one which I found through image search.
> 
> The song Jaskier sang is ‘I know how the moon must feel’ by Dayna Manning.
> 
> Next chapter(s) should be up on Wednesday, not sure how many. (Includes my attempt at romantic poetry) I usually update 2 chapters at a time but *someone* (me) wrote an uneven number of chapters and the last one is very very short, so we'll see. 
> 
> I love comments. I have a full day of work tomorrow and would appreciate feedback (fave bits etc.). Thank you for your sustained time!


	11. Broken Peace and a Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have three options, or rather three destinations as opposed to wandering the Continent aimlessly.  
> Oxenfurt and Lettenhove are both places they’d be accepted easily. Jaskier is well known and liked in both places but neither place is conduit to defending against the agents tailing them – Oxenfurt being a busy city and Jaskier was unwilling to bring the war to his family, either of his families.  
> Kaer Morhen however…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I try to write poetry based off Anya Chalotra’s smile, which is so very beautiful and deserving of poems far better than mine. (Turns out it was her Birthday yesterday so good-ish timing that!)
> 
> Also you're getting 3 chapters today because I a) couldn't work out how to divvy them up and b) my next day off isn't till Sunday and I didn't want to make you wait till then for an update.

Being kissed by Yennefer had been a surprise. A pleasantly confusing surprise. A blade to his neck, blood, a very beautiful heroine… well it was generally a combination that led Jaskier to make very reckless decisions. He was glad it hadn’t gone further. She had just told him her first-hand account of one of the most horrific battles in living memory, if their relationship was going to go anywhere it would be out of mutual attraction and respect rather than emotional vulnerability.

Currently she’s brewing her burn scar potions.

“I wish I’d paid more attention in botany,” he said sitting next to her. He’s just finished shaving the other half of his moustache.

“Didn’t you learn anything at your university?” she asks passing him pestle and mortar and he sets about grinding celandine and …other… leaves. He knows how to communicate with plants but how to mix them into medicines? Nooo.

“I learned the Seven Liberal Arts. Grammar, Rhetoric, Logic, Arithmetic, Geometry, Music and Astronomy. Nothing about botany. Geralt did try but I’d always forget. He’d tell me a berry was poisonous, I’d eat it. Poisonous for humans he meant. Now if you wanted a tale of two lovers, their heartbreak painted across the sky -” he breaks off, his breath stolen by her expression.

She’s smiling wildly into her own bowl; the moon herself would fall for that smile…

“ _The moon would fall for your smile._

_That is why she lies upon the lake,_

_So she may gaze upon such beauty nearer…”_ he composes absently aloud.

It’s not perfect. It needs some work.

She smiles again, this time unsurely, almost timidly. Has no one ever written her a poem? He would write them all for her. She deserved the world.

The thought entered his brain like a ray of sun bathing a rock in warm heat, despite it being an overcast day.

Oh.

Oh no.

His beating heart jumped, faltered, then began to beat once more, this time in part dedicated to her happiness.

“Crush this next,” she passes another jar of herbs to him; briskly but with kind eyes.

Aye, he could do this. He’d probably do anything she asked.

After a lunch of left-over deer and bread, she applied the salve to her arms, neck and face.

Jaskier spent the time repairing the rest of his clothes, with chaos and thread, and tuning his recently neglected lute. Ooh he had neglected her. An entire afternoon changing her strings and oiling h- yeah this was going to a weird place. He and his lute did _not_ have that sort of relationship.

“So, Yennefer, I think we ought to, perhaps, get to know each other a little better…” he says, tuning up.

“What do you want to know?” she said, lying back and soaking up the ring’s energy.

He could ask her anything, she must have a wealth of knowledge…

“What is your favourite colour?”

“Seriously? Right, uh, bright yellow,” she said bemusedly, snorting slightly.

“Really?” he’s surprised, she almost always dresses in black and white.

“And you, Jaskier -” he loves the way her voice softens slightly at his name, “What’s your favourite colour?” Her tone is mocking but her eyes are interested.

“I – I don’t know. One day it’s jade green, the next pure gold. Today -” Violet, bright, interested violet.

He’s saved from answering by a twang on the edge of his defences.

He sprang up, placing his lute cautiously to one side.

“Someone’s here,” he said.

Yennefer stood also, “Is it Nilfgaard?”

“I think so, uh, I’ll just go check…”

“I’ll grab the sword. Just in case.”

Jaskier picked his way to the edge of the clearing then, pulling out his dagger so it’d be ready when popped back, transformed into a blackbird. He flew forward and perched on a branch.

It was, predictably, a band of Nilfgaardian scouts that had invaded their peace.

“They said the witch came this way -”

“-fucking mages-”

“Shh – who knows how long their ears are!”

“Look. The bitch that burnt Sodden Hill is in these woods. If we bring her back Cahir’ll maybe reward us.”

“Reading entrails … it ain’t right -”

There were about 10 of them. A little more than he could take by himself. Even in his largest, sharpest, form, at least one of them could injure him, however temporarily. Who knew what Nilfgaardian mages had their armourers coat their swords with?

He could have some fun.

He hopped in front of the soldiers from tree branch to tree branch, catching their eye and distracting them. He flutters around their heads, dizzying their thoughts, dusting chaos into the air above their heads. After a few passes around the company, Jaskier sits back and watchs them stumble. He sings, tweets a little, and the leader spins a little, swaying.

“Have we – have we been turned around … we’ve passed this bird before…” one of them mumbles, as if drunk.

“Someone’s stolen my ale,” another muses despondently.

Jaskier pops back into bardic form at the rear of the heavily armed soldiers, bare feet landing silently on the floor.

He can see Yennefer over their heads, sword in hand.

He nods at her.

They attack, Jaskier’s magic dissolving as the soldier’s instincts broke through in blind panic.

They take 5 each, Yennefer cutting down the soldiers efficiently, Jaskier slashing the throat of two at once – one with his knife the other with his claws. He kills the 3rd with a wet stab to the stomach. For the last 2 he morphs into a dog and goes for the throat like he did with the Reavers atop the Dragon mountain.

The two of them stand over their battle

Yennefer looks tired, she’s still recovering after all and no doubt she’s more used to fighting with magic than not. (He knows he’s pretty shocking with two legs and a sword himself).

Jaskier licked an unlucky wound on his right shoulder. It’s bleeding badly.

“You alright there,” Yennefer asks, “Pup?”

Jaskier barks and rose to two legs. He’d have licked her face if his mouth wasn’t so bloody.

“Oh, you know… Sick to the stomach,” blood roiled from where he’d, eugh, swallowed it. He spat, saliva, pinked tinged on the wood floor.

Eugh.

X

The invasion by Nilfgaardian scouts’ is what jolts them back to reality.

They can’t spend the war _playing house_ in a wood. Jaskier fills in the burrow, chests and all. Yennefer cleans off the sword she’d used in the battle and packs her things into a bag.

They leave the bodies burning at the edge of the wood.

Physically she’s fine, her burns are mostly healed, her hair is growing back, though she still has the scars from her long life.

Magically she’s about as magical as a teacup.

They have three options, or rather three destinations as opposed to wandering the Continent aimlessly.

Oxenfurt and Lettenhove are both places they’d be accepted easily. Jaskier is well known and liked in both places but neither place is conduit to defending against the agents tailing them – Oxenfurt being a busy city and Jaskier was unwilling to bring the war to his family, either of his families.

Kaer Morhen however…

Yennefer could agree it was good sense to go somewhere easily defensible and out of the way. However, whether or not they would be welcome was another question.

That’s where Geralt would be, and therefore his child surprise whom, if she were at full strength, Yennefer would be destined to train.

Tissaia, Sabrina and Triss were scattered, healing and hiding from Fringilla’s probing forces. Aretuza was too visible to both the complacent forces of Ban Ard and in the poisonous eye of Fringilla.

After about 3 days of walking, Jaskier had, hesitantly, offered to transform into a horse to give her legs a rest.

She quelled him with a glance.

They travelled carefully, sometimes going by night to avoid potential patrols. They stayed in inns sparingly only on the colder nights, when they travelled near towns. On nights when they travelled through scrubland they curled up on bedrolls, huddled for warmth.

They hadn’t revisited the kiss they’d shared, though they woke up tangled together each morning and innkeepers took them for man and wife regularly – a notion neither of them disabused, Nilfgaard was after all looking for a single man and a single mage not a married pair of quiet refugees. Yennefer even refrained from glaring at Jaskier too much at each increasingly more-ridiculous-than-the-last pet name he called her.

It was in one such inn, trying to sleep, when she raised the doubts that plagued her:

“What if it doesn’t come back my chaos?” she whispered into the cool air.

Her head was rested between his shoulder blades, the fact that he wasn’t looking at her bolstering her quiet confession.

Jaskier shifted, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“It will. It’s part of you. It’s not gone it’s just, tired,” he murmurs at her quietly, “you burnt down an entire legion of Nilfgaardians. You stopped them from reaching the Pontar. The Northern Kingdoms should be grateful on bended knee.” She snorted slightly at his poeticism and he rolled over to look sleepily into her eyes. Absently she traced his root spots with the tips of her fingers.

“Jaskier…” she starts.

“Yennefer?” he murmurs.

She rests her forehead against his. She cups his face, running her thumb over his stubble.

“Yen -” And she kisses him. It’s slow for a split second, then it’s a messy clack of teeth and tongue.

The sex is good, she understands why he’s got such a good reputation as a lover – he leaves her boneless twice before attending to his own needs. He is unsurprisingly vocal, of course, throughout, his body responding wonderfully as she presses his pressure points. His whispered adorations burrowing through her and spreading until she almost believes them.

And, after, he doesn’t roll to one side and immediately start snoring. Instead he quietly tucks his nose into her shoulder and traces circles into her healed bicep. She falls asleep to his humming.

X

They’re still heading to Kaer Morhen, or rather in the general direction of where they think the Witcher stronghold is. They’d had a bit of good luck there.

Most of Yennefer’s chaos was still refusing to tune – small acts taking far too much out of her; she’d lit a candle the other day and given herself a week’s worth of migraines and nausea. It had only been bloody stubbornness and ginger tea that had made her continue. Besides she was no stranger to chronic pain.

It had started with a dream, only days after they had left the clearing. A girl running through a wood, their wood – hers and Jaskier’s. The girl was short and blond, a perfect description of Geralt’s child surprise. She was hiding in their clearing, only metres from their dismantled ring – anxiously looking around. Cirilla frowns, concentrating suddenly:

“Yennefer?”

And then Yennefer had woken up, jostling Jaskier on their bedroll.

“Wha-”

“The Child Surprise. She’s looking for us. In her dreams. She saw the ring.”

“And Geralt?”

“I didn’t see him. Just Cirilla, by the ring,” Yennefer settled back down.

“So, dream walking? Is that new?”

“It wasn’t the future. It was her reaching out for me. It happened once, just after, during Sodden. Whilst I was still unconscious. I heard Geralt and Tissaia looking for me but it was Cirilla hearing not me.”

“Geralt wasn’t at Sodden, was he?”

“No, but he was nearby.” She gazed up into the stars.

“Destiny paving the way,” Jaskier mused, “he must have been thinking of you, in spirit?” he nudged her teasingly.

“Would it work, the three of us?” Yennefer thought aloud.

“Geralt might need convincing he’s deserving of the attention; he has one of the worst cases of low self-esteem I’ve ever met. Also, hopefully him pulling his head out of his arse about Ciri means he’s accepting responsibility and dealing with… everything.”

“All those scary Witcher emotions,” Yennefer says, “he claims to have none but… the world is not kind to him.”

“Pot. Kettle,” Jaskier says, gently, but she still tenses

“You think I’m closed off? Cold, like Geralt?” The problem is, Jaskier _see’s her_ , not her bullshit, not the mask she’s put on over the years. _Her_.

“Cold on the outside, a mirrored mask to the world, but a burning furnace smouldering inside awaiting the right fuel to set you alight. Whether it be anger or delight, distaste and desire… There’s this strength you both have, to carry on day after day. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Because you’ll be there?” Yennefer asks, scoffing slightly because in her experience people run at the first sign of commitment. Why was this bard, an optimist through this war, want to spend his life with a grumpy-if-endearing Witcher and … her?

“Yes. I’ve known Geralt for 22 years. The first day we met he punched me in the stomach, we were captured by Elves, and my first lute was smashed to splinters. If that didn’t put me off, nothing will. And you? You command a room; you’d don’t apologise for who you are. You could kill everyone, chaos or no. You grew on me. Like a… sexy fungus.”

“A _what?”_

That brings her up short, her doubting thoughts screeched to a halt. People usually call her beautiful, or ugly, not –

“Er. Admittedly not my best line. How- how do you feel about ‘darling mushroom’ as a pet name?” she prods him the stomach, sour atmosphere broken.

They laugh quietly with each other, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the moon.

He kisses her on the cheek.

They settle back down into sleep.

On their bedroll in Lyria.

x

Jaskier was happier know that Geralt and his Child Surprise were actually travelling to Kaer Morhen this winter. He’d been optimistic, had even entertained the thought of charming either Eskel or Lambert as they made their way up to the keep.

Soon after leaving Lyria, Yennefer had had a dream which had shown Cirilla walking the halls of Kaer Morhen, with a sense of realness that hinted a known place, that she was steering the dream to show Yennefer where she and Geralt were.

Actually, getting up to the keep however? No idea. The, very sparse, information Jaskier had gleaned over the last 20 odd years of Geralt not telling him anything was that the road to Kaer Morhen was deliberately dangerous so as to deter trespassers. He could probably fly up, but that would likely get him shot down with a well-timed Igni. Beside there was a courtesy in entering another being’s home. Especially if that home was your, hopeful, future lover’s family den. Also flying with Yennefer would be more likely to get them killed than not.

So, they settled in the last town before Kaer Morhen, or so they hoped, and waited. Neither of them was suited to it. The days alternated between composing, but sadly not playing – it was too noticeable, helping Yennefer with her chaos – so far she’d singed one of his eyebrows – and sex.

Which was good. So _very_ good. Dear sky above he’d happily spend the next millennia pleasing her (and Geralt, of course, it turned out Yennefer _was_ pro-sharing.)

But it was very cold, this far North – East, and the locals were slightly, slightly, suspicious of two travellers stopping in their end-of-the-road town. And he couldn’t even sing for coin.

He _could_ sing for Yennefer though. The Phoenix of Sodden, true to his word, hadn’t become a ditty made for the masses, instead it was chronicled seriously in his notebook, awaiting the appropriate audience. The ballad of the violet eyed dragon protector, as yet unnamed, was already, probably, irritating her, slightly.

It made her smile though. Between the grumbles of cabin fever, the frustrated moments when her chaos slept despite their prodding, the little moments – the one that made him laugh and smile too – made all their frustration worth it.

Yennefer’s dreams were increasing in frequency, the last actually showing from afar Kaer Morhen; Cirilla purposefully projecting a view of the fortress through their shared dream, reassuring the pair that they were in the right place. That Cirilla at least would welcome them, even if Geralt didn’t.

In preparation, Jaskier used his not-so-insignificant Fae magic to stock provisions – not _steal_ no, but multiply, say, 2 amphoras of salted meat into 4? Certainly. They’d even given into pressure and bought a mountain pony because whilst Jaskier could tuck away his lute and other small items into his chaos, provisions meant to last several months he could not do.

Now they just had to await Geralt. The missing piece to their puzzle.


	12. Heart and Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Witcher?” the Innkeeper asks, reeking of fear and confusion.  
> “I’m looking for a man and a woman. Arrived a few days ago.”  
> “A contract?” the Innkeeper stuttered.  
> “Are they here?”  
> “Geralt!” Jaskier! The bard was half dressed, standing on the stairs, “We weren’t expecting you for two days at least.”  
> “You’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last full chapter. The next being more of a coda (if that’s the right word)
> 
> Also, the creature Jaskier becomes in this chapter is a Malabar Squirrel, or an Indian Giant Squirrel. I saw them on a nature documentary and they're so beautiful.

Geralt knew that Yennefer, and probably Jaskier too, were drawing ever nearer. He’d warned Vesemir they may have guests – Lambert had catcalled and Geralt had blushed as much as he physically could with his mutagens.

So, he prepared to go down the mountain to collect Yennefer, and hopefully Jaskier, before the first snowstorm. Eskel promised to continue with the training program they’d started with Ciri in his absence. He realised now be could have awaited Yen at the base of the mountain but getting Ciri out of sight had taken precedence, especially since they hadn’t been sure how far behind she was. In Ciri’s last dream Yennefer had shown her the shitty tavern in the town.

Vesemir promises to have everything ready for when he returns, spare rooms for Yen and Jaskier already airing.

He and Roach made good time down the mountain, though it’s odd to be heading all the way down so early in the same season. A bubbling clench grips his stomach as he spies the inn. He can smell, vaguely, a whiff of lilacs mixed with, oh gods above, a clean floral twist that could only be Jaskier.

He ties Roach under the shelter outside the inn and, taking a breath, enters.

“Witcher?” the Innkeeper asks, reeking of fear and confusion.

“I’m looking for a man and a woman. Arrived a few days ago.”

“A contract?” the Innkeeper stuttered.

“Are they here?”

“Geralt!” _Jaskier!_ The bard was half dressed, standing on the stairs, “We weren’t expecting you for two days at least.”

“You’re okay.” And he looked it. There was a mostly healed magical scar on his right eye but that was the only new mark.

“Oh, being chased by Nilfgaardians gives a chap a new lease of life - you should try it, Geralt. Come on, you can help us pack. Wait till you meet Brindle, a delight of a horse – I’m afraid Roach might need anger management. We’ve stocked up, if 22 years with one hungry Witcher have taught me anything, well it taught me a lot, and winter is a time for comfort food -” Geralt follows him up the stairs and lets the comforting cadence of Jaskier’s voice wash over him. He’d missed this.

“– do you have an apple press in Kaer Morhen? We’ve brought apples, for juicing. If not, we’ll build one, that’ll be an interesting challenge-” and he opens the bedroom door.

Yennefer is in the bath by the fire. She looks healthier than Geralt expected. Burn marks coat her arms, torso and neck, and faint scars adorn her jaw and, he suspects, her back too.

“One grumpy, cold, Witcher delivered to our doorstep, my dear,” Jaskier bows playfully and sits on the bed, pulling his boots off.

The room is unnaturally, magically warm.

“Have you given him a moment to get a word in edgeways?” she teases Jaskier.

“Yen,” Geralt greets her.

“Geralt. Please don’t stand on ceremony, take a seat,” Geralt carefully keeps his eyes on her face.

Jaskier is less polite.

Geralt is very conscious of the fact there is only one bed. A bed that smells of both Yennefer and Jaskier, happy and amorous.

He feels out of place. He’s used to that feeling, of course, but he’s never felt quite like this before. His former lover and closest friend have become lovers. Still he’d better say what he needs to say, at least.

“I’m sorry. Yen. For trying to tell you what to do. For implying you couldn’t be a mother. For telling you what to do with your body. I was, out of line. I lost my temper.”

She surveys him a moment before sighing.

“I probably wouldn’t be a good mother, but you’re right, you were out of line. You never speak to me like that again. Other than that, you’re forgiven. I doubt they taught healthy emotional management at Kaer Morhen. They certainly didn’t at Aretuza,” she smiled wryly, washing her shoulders.

Geralt played with the strap of his swords,” And – uh, Jaskier, I’m sorry for blaming you for the Law of Surprise. It wasn’t your fault and I shouldn’t have blamed you. I consider you my closest friend.”

“All forgiven, Geralt. Now, come on,” and suddenly Geralt finds himself pulled into the deceptively strong arms of his bard; his nose slotting easily into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck as if this was something they did regularly. Reflexively his arms tighten around Jaskier’s waist.

When they pull apart, Jaskier darts in and Geralt’s brain whites out as a firm but chaste kiss is pressed to his mouth, the slight pressure only about 2 seconds long.

“Go on and stable Roach. You can stay here tonight,” Jaskier say and Geralt, still confused, nods.

He mechanically stables Roach, brushes her down, settles her with food, and asks her, “What would you do if your friend of 20 years kissed you? No? Me neither.”

When he gets back to the room Yennefer is dressed in a knee-length nightdress and applying burn salve. Jaskier is stripped to his small clothes. Geralt can’t stop staring at the expanse of skin on display. He’d known Jaskier wasn’t as small as he presented himself but there’s so much hair and muscle and –

“– my eyes are up here, Geralt,” Jaskier says and Geralt recoils. Why would he think Jaskier would want –

“Hey now,” and Jaskier catches Geralt’s hands gently between his own, a pout on his mouth, “Let’s get this armour off and have an early night.”

Though where he was going to sleep, Geralt didn’t know, the rug maybe? It looks fairly thick.

It’s almost routine, the way Jaskier unbuckles his armour and sets it aside as if to be cleaned, as if they were still on the path.

Once dressed Geralt hovers, the bath is still in front of the fire – the best place for to lay the rug to sleep on. Then –

Jaskier tugs his hand and pulls him, with Fae strength, onto the bed. _Right in the middle_.

“Jaskier, what -?”

“I’ve missed you. And I love you.” Geralt’s brain whites out again.

“And don’t argue with me, I do. I’ve loved you for so many years. I love you so much.”

A lump form’s in Geralt’s throat, “I-”

“I’ve found kissing him is a good way to shut him up when he gets too sappy,” Yennefer’s voice cuts in like a bucket of water, he’d almost forgotten she was there.

“I love you too, Yen!” Jaskier called over to her. She rolled her eyes fondly at him then…she…slid... into…bed… next... to him –

“I’m also very fond of you, Geralt.” It feels so strange. In bed between Yennefer, who’s fully dressed, and Jaskier, who’s almost nude. Both of them telling they love him.

Why? Why, he’s nothing special and he’d hurt them so much and –

A light trace of a spiral on his arm jolted him back to the room, to reality.

It was Yennefer.

“The three of us?” he growled, trying not to hope.

“The three of us,” Yennefer confirmed.

“Hm.”

“Hm,” Jaskier echoed, his face smashed into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Ciri’s looking forward to meeting you,” Geralt said, truthfully.

“I can teach her, if she wants,” Yennefer offers, “My chaos is still low, but…”

“Hm. ‘s a good idea.”

“Glad I thought of it,” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s bicep, sending a zing up his arm. Geralt lets out an involuntary gasp. Jaskier mouths a bit more purposefully.

Yennefer’s tracing on his other arm, increases in pressure.

Oh, Melitele spare him…

He has questions, obviously, but Yennefer’s tracing soothing shapes on his right arm, the heady scent of Lilacs and Gooseberries wafting over him, and on his left there’s Jaskier, drooling slightly onto his arm, humming, the melody calming his busy brain.

“Hm,” and he starts to drift off. The anxious, panic that had plagued him since the war had started, worrying if the two most maddening beings in his life were alive and healthy, dying a happy death between them in bed.

He drifted off. A kiss was pressed to his forehead. Whom by, he didn’t know.

X

The next morning, he woke with Yennefer still to his right, not touching but only a hair apart, and Jaskier glommed onto his left side like a Kraken to a Skelligan warship – one arm thrown over Geralt’s stomach.

Geralt was content to lie there, though he was conscious that if they didn’t get a move on soon, they wouldn’t reach Kaer Morhen before dawn tomorrow. So, he extracted himself from the bed and set up his armour.

Yennefer awoke slowly, grumbling as she’s enveloped by Jaskier’s boiling hot groping arm, the bard now star-fishing across two thirds of the bed. She sits up, looking well rested but rudely awoken. She got out of bed quickly, patted Geralt on the arm, absently kissed him on the cheek and divested herself of her nightdress.

Geralt’s mind went blank and took another moment to reawaken.

“Hm,” Jaskier hummed, awaking, rolling over, and taking in the sight before him, “This is a good dream. Please let me never wake up.”

Geralt, not sure what else to do, picks up Jaskier’s trousers and throws them in the Fae’s face.

Predictably Jaskier blusters. Unpredictably he rises gracefully and pulls Geralt into a fantastically dirty kiss that Geralt tries to reciprocate without getting too carried away.

When Yennefer’s dressed, Jaskier buttoning her up at the back and pressing an opened mouth kiss to her neck, Geralt starts gathering their provision.

Oh, to have a warm, lockable, room with a large bed and mountains of furs. Getting to Kaer Morhen couldn’t come quickly enough.

“Get dressed Jaskier,” Yen whispers to him, giving him a little push.

“I’ll load up the horses,” Geralt says, and leaves as Jaskier starts humming. In high spirits, no doubt happy to be finally on the move.

x

The travel up to Kaer Morhen was a practically vertical assent – only just traversable by horse – up the mountain. Yennefer sat atop Brindle, the mountain pony, Geralt atop Roach, and Jaskier was tucked around Yennefer’s neck like a stole, in the shape of a colourful squirrel.

It was warm and he in turn was warming Yennefer’s shoulders. He was currently holding several bags un his chaos. Already it had been several hours trudging in cold but thankfully dry weather. A mist had threatened to delay them and snow-clouds hung over them ominously. Night was now upon them and Jaskier had been frozen in one position since they set off, only twice leaving Yennefer’s shoulders to first take a piss then secondly to take 5 minutes on Geralt’s shoulders. That had lasted until Geralt had perceived Yennefer shivering slightly, despite Jaskier’s attempt to use chaos to warm the three of them up, and sent Jaskier back to her.

The castle gates loomed ahead, signalling the end of their climb. No more sharp-drop paths littered with the bones of the besieging humans on the castle’s worst day and of the Witcher’s who’d lost their lives in defence of their home.

They trot over the threshold as a stern looking older Witcher opens the gates. A blond child cannonballs into the courtyard.

“You’re back!” And she slams into Geralt as he dismounts from Roach.

X

Ciri’s been watching out for them for several hours when she sees the vague reflection off Roach’s bridle. She rushes down to the courtyard where Vesemir is waiting with a lighted torch.

She crashes into Geralt.

When she parts from Geralt, she eyes Yennefer. Violet eyes, black hair, big grey coat. She’s striking, shorter than Ciri expected and shivering slightly in the cold. Her burn marks look more healed than in their shared dreams.

“Ciri. This is Yennefer,” Geralt introduces, gesturing toward Yennefer. Ciri holds her breath until Yennefer passes judgement.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess Cirilla.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” Ciri replied politely, “Is it true you were the mage at Sodden?”

“Yes. I’m afraid it depleted my chaos, rather, but I’ll teach you the best I can, if that’s what you wish?”

“If you can, please,” then, because she does want Yennefer to like her, “How did you meet Geralt? He’s told me barely anything.”

“He tried to capture a Djinn. I helped free him from his wishes. Then I made it worse,” Yennefer says, lightly but honestly, Ciri thought.

Around Yennefer’s neck is a creature Ciri has never seen before, at first, she assumed it was a stuffed stole like the one Grandmother used to wear in winter but then it clambers around to sit properly on her shoulder. It looks like a large, brightly coloured, squirrel with purple and gold fur. It’s eyeing her with interest. She stares back.

Vesemir nods to Yennefer as she greets him, “Master Witcher, thank you for allowing us in your keep.”

“Might I ask what creature you’ve brought with you, sorceress?” Vesemir asks.

“It’s just Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

Yennefer prods the sleepy squirrel who jumps off her shoulder. Its body twists and turns uncomfortably in the air for a split second before landing on two long legs. Ciri supresses a scream.

“’Just Jaskier!’ 23 years together and it’s ‘ _just Jaskier’_. Really Geralt is that any way to introduce me?”

It’s. It’s a man. He has short brown hair that flops over his forehead, stubble, and short pointed ears – shorter than Dara’s had been and closer to his head.

“Jaskier. Master Vesemir, Your Highness,” and he bows to the both of them, hand on the incorrect side of his chest.

“I’d wager he’s not mentioned me,” he says to her surprised expression.

“He said you were a bard, a friend,” she replies and the bard smiles a joyous, but inhumanly pointy, smile, bright eyes and freckles glistening in the torchlight.

“Jaskier is Fae,” Geralt says, nodding to Vesemir who had put a hand to his sword at Jaskier’s appearance, “I trust him completely.”

Ciri doesn’t know much about Fae, Grandmother didn’t like stories about other cultures – especially elves – but Fae? Weren’t they small creatures with fly-like wings who fluttered uselessly around mushrooms?

Jaskier is as tall as Geralt and wingless.

“Let’s go inside,” Vesemir suggests, “There’s soup leftover from dinner.”

Over dinner Ciri observes the dynamic between the three of them. She knows that Jaskier and Geralt met over 20 years ago during a hunt that started with them being captured by elves and ended with them becoming friends. Now she knows that they met Yennefer after Geralt was cursed by a Djinn.

Jaskier hasn’t stopped talking, Geralt watching him intently. Yennefer’s trying not to laugh, one hand covering her mouth.

“- Geralt, I love you dearly, but you were trailing blood all over the clearing. I was perfectly justified, I think in -” he’s retelling a story of a hunt which resulted in Geralt, dripping blood evidently, being pushed into a river. It’s left unsaid that Jaskier also came out of the incident soaking wet.

Geralt is smiling softly, Ciri’s not seen him so happy. Even Eskel looks pleasantly surprised. 

Ciri smiled into her soup. She wasn’t happy exactly, the destruction of Cintra still pressed upon her shoulders, but she felt hopeful, like the future could be warm again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to know what people think! Next (Final) chapter is a small one but (I think) brings it all together.


	13. Love (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would take them awhile for them to get into a routine, for the three of them to work out their dynamic, for Geralt to learn how to be a parent, for Jaskier and Yennefer to get to know Ciri, for Ciri to grow from a sheltered Princess into warrior Queen.  
> They had all winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last bit. Kinda short but it didn’t fit with the ‘vibe’ of the last chapter. Three chapters in 1 day, have fun!!!

Yennefer, now she’s faces with the reality of a child, doesn’t know what to do with her. True, Cirilla was being taught fighting by a pack of Witcher’s, but Yennefer had been the one tasked with the Princess’s magical education. (The Witcher with the scars, Eskel, had enough chaos in him he could have gone to Ban Ard if life had been different.)

“So, did you sleep in the ring?” Ciri asks her, she’s been curious about the dreams of late so they’re working on mind reading.

“Only when the pain was too much. Otherwise we slept in the burrow,” Yennefer shows Ciri her first memory of the burrow.

Ciri scrunches her nose at the sight of the single bedroll, “Oh, I thought you and Geralt were -” then broke off blushing.

“We are. But so, is Jaskier,” Yennefer settled on saying because going into how destiny may have bound her and Geralt together to raise Ciri, how they’d been lovers for several years but had broken up then made up, seemed a little too much to explain to an 8? 10? 15? year old. And that wasn’t touching on the mess with Jaskier, who had been bound to her but had loved Geralt from afar for years.

Never mind that at the time of the memory Jaskier had been spending his nights curled up as a dormouse, burrowed either in his discarded doublet or, on one memorable occasion, Yennefer’s hair.

They’d sorted it all out now, obviously, though Geralt was still painfully tentative even in his own home and Jaskier was so tactile his casual affection was evidently, to an outside observer, not much different from his flirting. But the way Geralt made sure she and Jaskier were made welcome here, even entertaining the bard’s ridiculous plans for an apple press and setting aside a workroom for her potions. He’d spent hours going through trunks of clothes, of painful memories, to find clothes that could be adapted for them, for the cold weather. And Jaskier…

Yennefer shook her head; she was getting distracted.

“Come on. What am I thinking?” and the lesson resumed.

X

Later that night in bed, the three of them huddled for warmth under about 10 blankets in a room so cold that only the large fire, Jaskier’s chaos and the application of body heat made the high stone walled room warm enough.

Jaskier was in the middle this time, like a 6ft tall hot water bottle. He snuggled down between his two-favourite people. Geralt was purring – a great, building, rumble resonating beautifully from the Witcher’s chest. Yennefer looked relaxed, happy, her eyes half-lidded and sleepy.

Jaskier preened quietly, these two, ultra-alert, people who denied themselves true happiness because they either thought they weren’t worthy or because they didn’t want to risk getting hurt, content in his arms. Jaskier wasn’t egotistical enough to believe he was the cause; here they all had a common cause, a comfy bed, steady food, warm affection and a princess who relied on them for stability and strength.

Well, Geralt had the sword fighting and combat down to a T and Yennefer was schooling her chaos – yesterday Ciri had told him in exact detail what revenge Jaskier was contemplating on exacting on Eskel after Lil’Bleater had ‘accidentally’ eaten his composition book (Yennefer had suggested Ciri maybe refrain from reading Jaskier’s mind in future before she learn things about adult life no 13 year old should).

And Jaskier? Well Jaskier could teach her… music? Her gift seemed sound based, so far. Or, and Jaskier suspected this might be a little more useful in a castle full of Witcher’s and a sorceress with a less than pleasant childhood, Jaskier could teach her people skills, reasoned debate, logic, how to work a crowd - all things a well-rounded Queen would need to know in order to rule.

Geralt was gazing at Jaskier with those gigantic molten gold, pupils-wide happy-cat eyes. So soft.

Yennefer was snoring slightly, a small smile resting on her face.

Jaskier snuggled deeper into the blankets, extending his toes luxuriously.

All was well. Several rooms down, Ciri slept quietly – some nights she had night terrors. On those nights Geralt would hum her to sleep with half remembered songs from Jaskier’s repertoire.

(Eskel would awake tomorrow to find the door handle to his room ‘inexplicably’ covered with honey, dandelions growing out of Scorpion’s feed trough and hay bale, and buttercups sprouting from his second-best boots.)

It would take them awhile for them to get into a routine, for the three of them to work out their dynamic, for Geralt to learn how to be a parent, for Jaskier and Yennefer to get to know Ciri, for Ciri to grow from a sheltered Princess into warrior Queen.

They had all winter.

  
Spring would bring new challenges. Geralt would have to resume his place on the Path and Yennefer, hopefully back to full power, would be drawn back into the war, stopping Nilfgaard and ensuring Ciri would still have a Cintra to govern when she grew strong enough to fight Nilfgaard herself.

And Jaskier?

He’d be there, standing shoulder to shoulder with them, leaving trails of chaos as he goes with each step, with each strum of his lute, and with every song paving the path of hope, truth, and, most importantly, love.

Because that’s what matters most.

Love.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that’s all folks. This is my quarantine baby. I unfortunately went back at work this week (which I think is a really fucking dumb idea). So stay indoors, wear a mask, and spare a thought for a disgruntled retail assistant (me) who doesn't think what their shop sells is particularly essential rn.
> 
> So, uh. Comments are appreciated? Usually I don’t care, but this is 34k and 4 months work. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta I mainly reblog Witcher and TAD stuff so...
> 
> *The Second thing that matters most is ingredients, so...uh... buy those. 
> 
> (I couldn't resist, sorry friends, I watch that baking video at least once a fortnight and it never fails to make me cry tears of laughter. Well played Mr Batey, well played.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the warm up. Next Chapter we meet Geralt and the fic starts to 'follow' canon.


End file.
